The End Code
by Aduro
Summary: This is the fourth, and last, in the Code Series. In order to help Harry defeat the Dark Lord, Draco has deciphered the most difficult code in wizarding history - the Merlin Code. Now he just needs to figure out how to make it work...
1. Four, or Rather, Five Years Gone

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, I would take a vacation. To the seaside, I think.

Author's note: So - here it is. The final installment of the Code series. I think I have the general story fleshed out. Let's see if it ends up anywhere close to the outline, shall we?

OoOoOoOoO

Draco was being followed.

It wasn't the first time. Not that he remembered the first time. Or if the first time had been the only time.

He didn't remember much of anything.

But he was being followed now. At least, he was pretty sure he was. There was a knot in his stomach, a prickle on the back of his neck, and a shadow of someone out of the corner of his eye – and every time he tried to turn his head fast enough to see who it was, he saw no one.

Well, just a glimpse of red hair. Which could mean nothing at all.

But he still pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, darted across the street without waiting for the crossing signal, and ducked down the nearest subway entrance.

New York City was enormous. There were plenty of people to get lost in, and Draco was deliberately living in the most densely populated area. He needed to stay hidden.

It was unfortunate, then, that he had such a distinctive appearance. He was pretty sure he was albino. No one was as pale as he was without some kind of genetic mishap. His skin and hair were practically white. His eyes were pale gray.

Disguises helped. He'd even dyed his hair on a few occasions, but the upkeep was too difficult. So knit caps and hoods helped him. And overlarge sweatshirts to hide the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

He let the presence of the gun comfort him as he took four different subways and three different cabs to get back to his flat.

 _Apartment_ , not flat.

It was also unfortunate that he had a habit of slipping out with British terms and a British accent. While it gave him a vital clue to his identity, it made him noticeable. Americans liked British accents. They remembered them.

He reached his apartment and quickly unlocked the door. He slipped inside, shut the door, and then bolted it. Eight different bolts. All ones that he had installed himself.

He let out a little sigh, dropped his forehead against the door, and wondered why he didn't feel any safer. He turned around and immediately jumped back, his hand going to the doorknob.

The red-haired man was standing in the middle of his kitchen.

"Draco," the man said, a smile stretching over his face.

Draco pulled the gun from his waistband and thumbed the safety off. He raised it, holding it with two hands – just like all the instructions said, and aimed it at the man's chest. Center mass. Easiest target to hit. "Who the hell are you?"

The red-haired man paused, blinked, and then frowned. He didn't raise his arms, like most people did when they were confronted with a gun. He just looked confused. He gestured to himself.

"It's me. Bill."

He said it like Draco should remember him. "Who?"

"Bill," the man repeated. "Draco, what's going on?" He took a step forward, and there was an expression on his face that looked like concern.

Draco sidestepped into the kitchen so he could get a little more distance between them. "Why are you here?" he asked, trying to think of the fastest way to escape. The door was out. There were too many locks on the door to get out before the man stopped him, but he could probably get to the window and the fire escape.

"I got your compass," said Bill. He reached into his jacket.

"Stop! Hands where I can see them!" Draco snapped, feeling his heart start to race.

Bill did as he was told, but he was obviously confused. That was fine. Draco had been confused for the past four years – and it was nice not to be the only one befuddled.

"You sent me the compass," Bill said. "So I could find you. I just got it."

Draco paused. "When?"

"Three days ago," said Bill.

Draco lowered the gun a fraction of an inch. "Are you here for the code?"

"What code?"

Draco bit back a sigh of frustration. "The code I've been working on for the past four years."

Bill paused. "You finished your work three days ago?"

"Yes."

"It's possible the compass was spelled to be sent to me once you were finished," Bill said.

Draco tried to parse through his words, but couldn't quite figure out what he was saying. "The code's in there." He tipped his head towards the bedroom. Well, it wasn't really a bedroom anymore. He'd converted it into an office.

Bill didn't move.

Draco raised the gun again. "Why are you here?"

"Because I've been looking for you," said Bill. "Why wouldn't I be here?"

Draco shifted his grip on the gun. "Who are you exactly?"

Bill sighed a little and deflated. "I'm your friend, Draco."

Draco wanted to believe him more than he cared to admit. Four years of running. Four years of that damned code. Four years of not knowing what it was for, or who he was, or if anyone was missing him, had taken its toll. He was tired. He was lonely. He was frustrated. And in the late hours of the night, when he had nothing to distract him from the darker thoughts, he was scared.

So he asked the only question that would mean anything to him. "What's your full name?"

Bill frowned. "I don't-,"

"Your full name!" Draco snapped.

"William Arthur Weasley," Bill said.

Draco took in a sharp breath. That was the name in the journal. He lowered his gun so that it was pointing at the man's knee, not his chest. "And you know me?"

"Yes," said Bill, almost vehemently. "We're friends, I swear to Merlin, we're friends."

Draco tipped his head to the side. "Swear to _Merlin_? Is that a British thing?"

A strange expression crossed over Bill's face. "You're British too," he said slowly.

"Am I?" Draco asked. "Because I speak French, German, Italian, Spanish, Gaelic and Russian. And I speak them perfectly. I speak Mandarin and Farsi as well, and a good deal of Swahili and Urdu – but obviously I'm of European descent."

"French was your first language," said Bill. "And… apparently you've been learning new languages since we've last met."

"How long has that been?"

"Five years," said Bill.

"Five," said Draco. He frowned. "I thought I'd only been gone four."

"You seem to have forgotten a lot," said Bill.

"You don't seem concerned by that," said Draco. "Is it a Manchurian Candidate thing? Or Total Recall? Are you going to tell me that I'm a secret agent for the CIA – or should I say, MI-6? Maybe I'm the real James Bond?"

Bill looked a little thrown. "I'm not entirely sure what you're asking me."

"My memories," said Draco. "Is it some high-tech mind-wipe? An advanced drug? Or just plain, old fashioned brain trauma?"

Bill rubbed his head and winced. In fact, he was looking a little pale. He pulled out a cheap metal chair from Draco's cheap, fold-up card table that he used as a dining room table and sat down.

Draco finally thumbed the safety back on the gun and sat down across from him.

"How much have you forgotten?" Bill asked, a little faintly.

"If we start there we might be here a while," said Draco.

Bill nodded. "Okay. Let's start with what you do remember."

Draco nodded back. "My name is Draco. I'm translating a code. It needs to stay secret." He stopped. "That's about all I remember. I mean, a few things I've figured out."

Now Bill was looking as if he'd had a migraine. "What have you figured out?"

"I'm a genius," said Draco. "Every couple of months, I move cities, somehow, but I don't remember moving, and I don't remember where I was before the move. I've started writing it down – all the cities I've been in. I thought I was gone for four years, but you're telling me it's five. The code I'm working on is some sort of archaic language, a weird language, I can't find it anywhere on the internet. And it's resistant to computers. I mean, I learned coding and programming specifically so I could run algorithms on that thing, but it fritzes out any type of electronic that comes near it. I burnt through three smartphones already – just by being in the same room as the damn thing."

He stopped, because Bill was grimacing and rubbing his temples.

"You don't like what I'm saying."

"I don't like what you're not saying," said Bill.

"Which is?"

Bill looked at him. His eyes were warm, friendly, but there was a tightness around his eyes that made Draco a little scared. "Draco," Bill said slowly, "what do you know about magic?"

Draco frowned. "Like – slight of hand and illusions?"

"No. Actual magic."

Draco felt his face screw up in distaste. "Magic is just a term for things science can't explain yet. Quantum physics and unrealized rules of the universe – and now you're shaking your head at me. Why?"

Bill was shaking his head, but not just in disagreement. In despair as well.

"Draco," he said, and then he paused, took a breath, and looked him straight in the eye, "you're a wizard."

OoOoOoOoO

"Draco," Bill said, and then he had to pause and take a breath – because this should not be something that he had to reveal to one of the smartest wizards from one of the oldest wizarding families. He looked Draco in the eyes and said, "You're a wizard."

He watched Draco – this foreign Draco, that Bill was just realizing that he didn't know – digest his words. And then Draco threw back his head back and laughed.

Yes, this was not the Draco that Bill knew. He'd never seen Draco laugh so openly, or so heartily. Draco shook his head as he laughed, and then he looked back at Bill. "Okay, that was a good one. Seriously, you got me."

Bill just smiled a little, and waited for Draco to catch on. He did, quite quickly.

"Wait," Draco said. "You're serious?"

"Very," Bill confirmed.

"I'm not a wizard," said Draco. "I think I'd know if I was. I'd be… I don't know, pulling rabbits out of hats and making flowers appear, and whatever else wizards do."

"Those are Muggle magicians," said Bill. "You're a wizard." He reached into his jacket – noting the way that Draco stiffened, like he was expecting a weapon – and pulled out Draco's wand.

Draco had left his wand, and a letter, before he'd disappeared. Bill had kept them both since then, and now he placed the wand on the table. Draco eyed it, and then looked up at Bill.

"That's yours," Bill confirmed.

"What is it?" Draco asked, even though Bill knew he was smart enough to draw his own conclusions. So he simply gestured to the wand.

Draco looked at it, and then leaned in to study it more. He didn't touch it, not yet, obviously wary. "I thought wizards had staffs."

"We've upgraded," said Bill.

"But does it have unlimited data?" Draco asked, a faint hint of mocking in his voice, and Bill didn't get the joke, but Draco finally reached out for it and –

Fireworks.

Draco gave a surprised shout, and recoiled, dropping the wand back onto the table and nearly tripping over his chair to get away.

Bill took in the startled, aghast look on Draco's face, and couldn't help the burst of laughter that came out of his mouth. He'd never seen Draco so unabashedly startled. The Draco that Bill knew – the Draco with all his memories – would never have been so open with his emotions, but now his eyes were wide with surprise and fright, and his mouth was gaping.

"What the hell?" Draco demanded.

"You haven't used your wand in years," Bill said. "It's not uncommon for a wand to react the same way as when you first choose your wand."

"I have no idea what you're saying," Draco informed him, but curiosity was drawing him back towards the table. He knelt on the floor to stare at the wand from the same level. "So is it bio-incandescents? A chemical reaction?"

"It's magic," Bill said.

"I don't see any LEDs," Draco continued. "And I'm not seeing any seams – so it's not electronic. Is it solar-powered?"

"It's magic," Bill said again.

Draco reached out for the wand, hesitated for a second, and then grasped the wand again. A few small sparks shot out of the tip, and then it stopped, the initial reaction finished.

"It feels… slightly warm," said Draco. "And it… thrums a little."

"Magic," said Bill.

"Would you stop saying that?" Draco asked. And then he frowned at the wand. "Okay, how does this work? Motion activated?"

"You have to say a spell," said Bill, and he pulled out his own wand and flicked it through the air. "Lumos."

Draco audibly gasped as the light filled the room, and then, because he had perfect recall, flicked his own wand and cast the exact same spell. And then he tried to figure out where the light was coming from.

"Do I need to say it again?" Bill asked.

Draco looked at him. He shook his head. "Okay," he said, sounding a little shaken. "Magic."

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So - I"m hoping to upload at least once every other week, hopefully once a week. We'll see what happens. Please review, and let me know what you think.


	2. The Language of Snakes

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do own a very nice cup of tea - and am drinking it now while I post. Ahh...

Author's note: Wow! Such lovely reviews! And so many people have stuck around since the first story! I love you all and appreciate your kind comments.

OoOoOo

 **Five years ago...**

Bill headed back into Malfoy Manor and found Fleur sitting in one of the many drawing rooms. She was actually using it for its named purpose, drawing. She had an easel set up, a host of colored quills, pencils, and pens beside her, and Lukas napping contently in a carrier by her feet.

"The children get off to school?" she asked, looking up from her work.

"All safe and sound," said Bill. "Well, Draco had some business to do, but it's not like his schoolwork will suffer for missing another day." He walked over to her side and laid a quick kiss on her lips. He let out a bit of sigh, content in the quiet that followed the absence of a multitude of teenagers, and then considered her sketch. It was a dress in purple, but beyond that, Bill couldn't say if it was an evening gown or a day dress. Fashion was not his strong suit.

"How long shall we stay, do you think?" Fleur asked.

"It is tempting to stay a while, isn't it?" Bill asked, taking the seat next to her and considering the room. He wondered if it would be possible to get used to such luxury, or if he would forever be surprised and pleased by it.

"I understand Draco is letting the Order use his home, but it feels… intrusive to stay while he is away."

"Agreed," said Bill. "I think my folks are planning on heading back to Grimmauld Place shortly. And we should probably see about our flat. I don't want to move back until it has a few more wards on it though."

Fleur sighed a little. "You are never happy with our wards."

"Curse breaker," Bill said. "Habit of the trade."

"Just because you can get through wards, does not mean everyone else can." Fleur picked up her pen and added some sort of bow to the dress. She considered the addition with a frown. Bill leaned in to kiss the frown away, but she pushed him back. "I have work."

Bill laughed a little, but stood to leave. "I'll find Mum. See what she says about packing. Maybe we'll hang out until tomorrow, in case Draco stops by after he's finished with whatever business he had."

Fleur nodded in agreement. Bill took a moment to kneel by his son, and stroke his cheek, but apart from rooting a little in his sleep, the baby didn't wake. Bill stood, and nearly stumbled over Tolly when the elf appeared with a small pop.

"A message for Mister William Weasley," he said, presenting a silver platter. A letter was sitting directly center on the polished surface. His name was on the front of the letter. It was Draco's handwriting.

"Thank you," said Bill.

The house elf disappeared again. Bill quickly unsealed the letter and began to read, a frown forming on his face as he read the contents.

 _Bill –_

 _I'm writing to inform you that I'll be gone for a while. I can't tell you why I'm leaving, or where I'm going. Suffice it to say, it's important. And I would tell you if I could._

 _I haven't told anyone else that I'm leaving. Except for Potter. But he doesn't know the particulars either. He told me that I should write a letter – that you deserve that much. I suppose he's right. He's better at the 'friend' thing._

 _I don't know how long I'll be away. I'm hoping no more than a year. It might take two. Possibly it could take three. If it takes longer than that… well, either my work is getting the best of me, or something went wrong. I don't intend for things to go wrong, so I'm not about to turn this into a farewell or 'last wishes' type of drivel, which is better suited for melodramas. I just wanted to let you know that I was gone. And that I will miss your company._

 _Your friend,_

 _Draco_

 _p.s. I'm naming you temporary guardian for Malfoy Manor. Don't go too wild._

Bill re-read the letter, slower this time. Fleur put down her pencil.

"William?"

Bill shook his head, pulling his eyes from the letter onto his wife. "So… we might be staying a while," he said, and handed the letter over for her to read.

OoOoOoOo

 **Present Day...**

Draco made a cup of coffee. Instant coffee. It was gross, to be sure, but it was quick and easy and he could make it as strong as he wanted. He grabbed some too-sweet coffee creamer from the fridge, because it was the only way the drink the foul-tasting stuff, and snagged a piece of cold pizza as well. He stuck the slice between his teeth while he stirred his coffee from black to pale beige.

He grabbed a paper towel to use as a plate, and then brought his dinner back to the table. Bill was watching him with something akin to revulsion on his face. Draco ignored him. He'd offered Bill a cup of coffee, but when Bill had seen the can of instant, he'd declined.

Draco took a bite of pizza, washed it down with the coffee, and said, "So, magic exists, but hidden from the 'Muggle' world, and right now there's a war going on in England and apparently I left for some unknown reason that should hopefully turn the tide of battle?"

"Yes," said Bill.

"And this 'Chosen One'-,"

"Harry Potter," Bill filled in.

Draco rolled his eyes a little – because he remembered the name, thank you very much – he was just using the title to show ridiculous this was, "is prophesized to destroy 'the Dark Lord'-,"

"Voldemort," Bill said.

Draco rolled his eyes again. Same concept. "But, you haven't, I don't know – just stuck them in a boxing ring together, maybe an MMA cage, and let them duke it out?"

Bill looked a thrown by the slang. "I think I know what you're asking. But yes – or rather, no. When Harry and Voldemort have faced each other in battle, it's… it's like a stalemate. Neither of them have been able to kill each other."

"And you think that's what I was working on," said Draco. "Finding a way that they can kill each other?"

"I think you knew about this problem before we even started," said Bill.

"And you think the code can help?"

"That's my guess."

"Okay," said Draco. He was pretty sure he'd wrapped his head around the gist of the story. "You want to see the code?"

Bill nodded, emphatically. "Yes."

Draco took his coffee mug and pizza with him. He led Bill into the bedroom that he had turned into an office. There were papers everywhere. Some crumpled on the floor, some in stacks, some tacked to the walls. There were books as well, language books and reference books and archaic scrolls, and a great deal of math books – primarily focused on statistics and algorithms.

The only neat area of the room was the desk, and that was only because everything that had been on the desk had been swept off to leave room for one journal.

It was a tattered journal now, but the cover was a good-quality of leather that had held together, and the paper was thick enough not to tear. It was stuffed full of pages ripped from other notebooks and notes scribbled on napkins and old receipts.

"That's Harry's Parseltongue journal," Bill said.

"Sorry, a what?" Draco asked around a mouthful of pizza.

Bill blinked at him, like he was more startled at his bad manners than the fact that Draco didn't know what the journal was. Draco shrugged. He was a young male, living alone. What did he expect?

Bill stepped forward and opened up the journal. Draco had perfect recall, so he knew what Bill was looking at on the first page. Even if he hadn't had perfect recall, he'd stared at the instructions long enough to have them ingrained in his mind.

" _Your name is Draco. When you read this, you will not know who you are. You will not know who your family is. You will not know where you're from, or where you are going. And I can't tell you what happened or why this was necessary._

" _Understand that this was the absolute last option available. If you want to remember who you are, if you want to remember anything, then you must decipher the code._

" _But you aren't safe. Not completely. There will be people who want to code – who want_ you _. Keep this book. It will protect you. This book is the only thing that will stay with you, so use it wisely._

" _Trust only William Arthur Weasley. He is a friend."_

Bill looked up from the book. His face was pale and he looked shaken. "Draco," he said, and then stopped, like he wasn't sure what to say.

Draco shrugged. "It took a while to realize that every couple of months I'd wake up in a different city, and that the book was the only thing that traveled with me. I had to keep all of my notes in it, all the work I'd done, or I'd lose it."

He finished his pizza, and then drained his coffee mug. "I kept a few notes for myself in the back, just things I learned."

Bill flipped to the back pages, and again, Draco knew what he was looking at, hastily jotted sentences, or sometimes cautiously written lines of inferences he'd made about himself.

" _I'm in Boston. I don't think I've always been here."_

" _I don't know why I don't remember."_

" _I have a British accent – maybe I'm British?"_

" _I'm in Moscow. I think I'm moving – but I don't remember how."_

" _I'm good with languages."_

" _I speak very good French. Sometimes I think in French. Am I French?"_

" _Math comes easily to me."_

" _I remember everything."_

" _I'm in Quebec now."_

" _I think I might be a genius – or narcissistic for thinking that if it's not true."_

" _I'm definitely a genius."_

" _I can't remember anything before this. I don't even know if I have a family."_

" _I don't know if anyone's looking for me."_

Bill closed the book. "We didn't look for you – not at first."

Draco frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You told us you were going away for a little while, and that it was necessary. Well, you told us in a letter, one for me, and one for Ginny."

Draco stood up a little straighter. "Ginny?" He fished a necklace out of his shirt. It was long enough to pull over his head. The chain was simple silver, and the ring that was hung on it was plain as well, but it was made out of platinum. He handed it over to Bill, who tipped it to read the inscription inside, just one word, ' _Ginny'_.

"What's it short for?" Draco asked. "Virginia? Regina? Ginnifer?"

"Ginevra," Bill corrected.

Draco screwed his face up slightly, because that was not a name he'd ever considered. "Ginevra," he repeated. He waited for the word to strike something in him, to bring some memory into focus, but nothing happened. He shook his head. "Are we married?"

Bill spluttered a little. "Married?"

Draco narrowed his eyes slightly. That was a bit of an over-reaction from the red-haired man, wasn't it? He shrugged. "It looks like a wedding ring."

Bill opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, and his face turned a little red. Draco laughed, pinning his odd response then. "Don't tell me," he said. "She must be your sister."

"My baby sister," said Bill. "You'd better not be married – sixteen! She was _sixteen_ when you left, Draco!"

Draco raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I have no idea what happened. Just asking. You have a problem with us, or something?"

"No," said Bill. "Just…,"

Draco shook his head. "Whatever, so the journal? You going to tell me what it is, and why it's so important that I spent five years of my life, with no memories, working on it, and no one bothered looking for me?"

"We did look for you," Bill corrected. "Just not at first." He sighed a little, and rubbed his face. "Look, you know you're a genius."

"Yes."

"Well, you often got it in your head to do things, sometimes crazy things, and you were seventeen, and an adult -,"

"Wait – what?"

"Seventeen's an adult in the wizarding world," Bill explained. "So, when you left, we couldn't really do much about it." He sighed a little. "And in your letter, you said it might take a couple of years, maybe even three years. And so it took us a while to get nervous. Towards the middle of the third year, we started sending out searchers, tried tracking you, and tried getting help from the Ministry. Kingsley's still in office, and he helped some… but then, things got bad."

That was an ominous line.

"What things?" Draco asked.

"We lost Grimmauld Place as headquarters," said Bill. "And then we started losing people. Remus was the first - or nearly so. He's still in the incurable ward."

Draco didn't know who Remus was. Or what Grimmauld Place was, but it was obvious Bill was shaken.

"And then… then was the battle for Hogwarts. We lost Dumbledore in that battle, and after losing him… we couldn't hold onto Hogwarts, either." Bill shook his head. "And then, it was like the tide turned. We lost Wizengamots – well, it shut itself up after the Death Eaters attacked, and half of St. Mungo's was destroyed. We lost people too. Ted and Andromeda. McGonagall. And then when the coup was attempted…," Bill stopped. He blinked and cleared his throat. "We lost the Ministry building, and nearly the Ministry itself, and during the attack, we lost Charlie."

Bill turned away, and scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

Draco waited for a moment, not knowing what to say, but feeling somewhat awkward in the knowledge that he _should_ know what it meant, that he _should_ feel something. But he didn't.

"I don't know what any of that means," he said. Bill turned back, something hurt in his expression even though his eyes were understanding. Draco shrugged. "I don't know who those people are, or what those places are."

Bill stepped forward to clap a hand on his shoulder. "I know. Maybe that's why… maybe that's why I'm telling you this now."

"Charlie," said Draco. "He's a family member of yours?" He had to be, with the way Bill reacted.

Bill nodded. "He was second oldest, after me. None of us… well, after Percy left home… it feels like we've been cut in half somehow. We used to be such a big family, and now, we're pretty close to average. It feels… smaller." He shook his head. "But all of us have lost someone by now."

Draco wanted to ask, 'What about me? Have I lost anyone?' but Bill hadn't talked about his family, and Draco was pretty sure he could guess what that meant.

"So – the code," he said, redirected the conversation. "What's it for? How does it work?"

Bill hesitated.

Draco realized what the hesitation meant. "Are you shitting me?"

OoOoOoOo

Draco swore. "Are you shitting me?"

He was indignant. Bill would be too, if he'd just wiped his memories and spent five years of his life deciphering a code, only to find out no one knew what it meant.

"You didn't even tell us why you were leaving," Bill said, trying to make Draco understand why he was so flummoxed. Draco liked keeping secrets, and he wasn't always good at communicating what he was doing, or why he was doing it. "And I didn't even know what you were working on until now."

"But you recognized it," said Draco.

Bill nodded and picked the journal up. "Harry gave you this, as a bit of a 'thank you' after you saved the life of his godfather. It's a Parseltongue journal, the language of the snakes. You're the only person cocky enough to think you can learn it, instead of being born with the ability to speak it."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Okay, is it a magical world you live in, or is it Disney? Talking animals, now? Really?"

"Just snakes," said Bill. "And not all of them."

And now Draco looked downright testy. "Are there actual rules in this universe of yours, or are you just making it up as you go along?"

Bill couldn't help but laugh a little, because that was very much the Draco he knew. Draco narrowed his gaze, looking offended at his laughter, and that was very much Draco as well.

"Sorry," said Bill. "It's just… you sound a lot like yourself right now."

Draco muttered something under his breath, but Bill ignored him in favor of flipping through the journal.

"No wonder you fried your computers," he mused. "Magic and technology don't get along – but this… this is really old magic here. This is…," he stopped, because the end of the code – he remembered those symbols. He'd studied those symbols, and so had every curse breaker since the 1600s. "Draco, do you know what you did?"

Draco spread his palms. "Not a fucking clue. Memory loss, remember?"

Bill disregarded the irritation in his voice. "You decoded the Merlin tomb. The _Merlin_ _tomb_. It's… it's gone unsolved since it was first discovered, and you… you realized it was Parseltongue. The language of the snakes. They had a written language!"

"That's just stupid," said Draco, crossing his arms. "They don't even have hands; how can they write?"

Bill jumped forward, ignoring the way Draco stiffed, and pulled him into a crushing hug. "This is amazing! Draco – I can't even fathom how you did this – this is astounding."

Draco sighed a little, and Bill stepped back quickly. "Sorry. You and your personal space issues."

"I have personal space issues?"

"You can be a little… prickly," Bill said. "But seriously, this is the discovery of the century!"

"Great, cool, awesome," said Draco, and he sounded anything but excited. "But now that you know what it is, do you know what it's for?"

Bill looked at the notebook, looked at Draco, then back at the notebooks. He shook his head. "I still don't know what it's for."

Draco threw up his hands in exasperation. "Is there anything you _do_ know?"

He was frustrated, and angry. And again, Bill completely understood that. So he closed the journal and said, "Your name is Draco Lucius Malfoy."

That caught Draco's attention. He looked at Bill.

"You're twenty-two years old as of June," Bill continued. "You're a genius with perfect recall, you play piano, you're something of a know-it-all, and you saved my life in your sixth year at Hogwarts."

Draco leaned back against the door frame, looking a little less annoyed.

"We're going to figure this out," Bill promised.

OoOoOoO

So - a few questions answered about what happened during those five years, and a whole lot more questions to go. Please leave a review!


	3. Going Home

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do own a gym membership, which, after Thanksgiving, probably needs to be utilized way more than it is right now, lol.

Author's Note: Bit of a wait for this chapter, apologies. It's a little longer than the others. Plus, Thanksgiving. So for all of you who celebrate, I hope you had a lovely time filled with good food and even better company. And for those who don't, I still hope you had a good weekend. I am thankful for all of you readers, who are so encouraging and supportive. Thanks!

OoOoOoOo

Portkeys.

Portkeys were like teleporters.

There were _teleporters_ in the world, and Draco had no idea they even existed.

In fact, Bill said that the Parseltongue journal was probably a Portkey, and was spelled to keep Draco moving from crowded city to crowded city.

He had said a few other things too, like that it might have been necessary for Draco to move so frequently to avoid detection, but Bill didn't seem entirely sure of what he was saying – like he was making an educated guess, and trying to convince Draco that it was fact.

But still – teleporters!

Or rather, Portkeys. Draco had to completely re-think about the world, and the rules he had thought governed the world. If people could teleport, did that mean they could fly?

Draco looked over at Bill. He was asleep, curled up a little in the train seat, obvious exhaustion written on his face. In fact, most of the passengers on the train looked exhausted. England was in bad shape – financial troubles, weather troubles, food troubles, health troubles, and crime troubles.

If there was some sort of underground war going on, it made sense. At least, Draco could come up with plausible reasons why a secret society having a civil war could create havoc in the larger, host community, but he didn't know if the reasons were accurate, or just guesses. He wanted to ask more questions – he wanted to ask a million of questions, but Bill looked tired. And he was sleeping.

So Draco looked out the window because apparently this was home and tried to find anything familiar. Nothing sparked his memory.

They trained into London, and then took a cab to a generic sort of street. They stopped outside a pub called the Leaky Cauldron – and really, that seemed a little obvious, didn't it?

Draco paid for the taxi. In fact, he'd paid for the train as well, because Bill didn't seem to have a whole lot of 'Muggle' currency, and Draco had a well-stocked credit card. He followed Bill into the pub, a little warily.

Bill looked wary too. As soon as he stepped into the pub, he drew his wand. He scoped the place out, a careful look from left to right, and then back again. Apparently satisfied, he moved towards the back. Draco followed, a little slower, taking stock of the pub and the customers. The pub was dimly lit, and it looked like it hadn't been refurbished in several years. The tables and chairs were worn, a little crooked and warped from use, and dinged up in more places than not. The customers were mostly silent and huddled in their booths, their gazes mostly aimed at the floor.

Bill stopped Draco at the back door. "Wait here."

He left, the door swinging shut behind him, and Draco paused, feeling a little uncertain and oddly exposed. One of the customers, a man huddled in a dark coat, looked up from his pint and glanced at Draco. His gaze widened, and he stared a little, and then cast around, as if he was looking to see if anyone else was seeing Draco.

Draco turned away, uncomfortable at the attention, and then for a lack of anything better to do, walked up to the bar.

The bartender was wiping down the counter, keeping his gaze low, just like the other customers, as if looking at the wrong person was a death sentence. He only looked up when Draco slid onto a stool, and then he started.

"Mr. Malfoy," he said, obvious surprise in his voice.

Draco blinked, also surprised. This man knew him?

"Haven't seen you in a while," said the man, putting down his cloth.

Draco didn't quite know what to say, so he simply gave a nod. "I've been away."

"Whereabouts?"

"The States," said Draco.

The man picked up a clean mug and poured fresh coffee into it. He then stared a little at Draco.

"Work or pleasure?"

Draco was hit with a strange sense of déjà vu. "Work – mostly."

The man poured in cream, a little sugar, and a splash of whiskey. He placed it on the counter in front of Draco.

Draco took it, sipped it, and smiled. "This is exactly what I needed."

"Rough day?" the man asked, continuing to wipe down the bar.

"Rough couple of months," said Draco. "And before that, I think it's been a rough couple of years."

"It's been going around," said the man, and then his gaze latched onto something behind Draco and he flinched.

Draco whirled around just in time to avoid a bright red light. It shot over his shoulder instead, and hit the shelves behind the bar. Glass bottles exploded.

 _Magic_ , Draco thought, even as he grabbed his barstool and flung it at the man standing in the middle of the room. He'd been a customer, one of the pair in the far corner, but he was dressed differently now. He was wearing a black robe with a hood.

The man flicked his wand, and the barstool – which had been hurtling towards his head – was whipped to the side and splintered on the wall.

 _Magic_ , Draco thought again.

And then the man's friend got up, and his clothes changed as well, morphing into a similar dark robe and hood. He slashed his wand, and Draco leapt up and over the counter.

A blue curse shot over the top of the counter. Draco ducked low as more glass shattered and threw up his arm to protect his face. Glass shards peppered him. He turned his head and saw the bartender huddled in the corner as well.

"I can't help you," the barkeep said. "I have to stay neutral. You understand."

Draco didn't understand. He didn't understand a lot of what was happening, but he could adapt.

This was a magical battle. Draco didn't know any battle spells, but Bill had shown him a few tricks. Lumos for light. Nox for dark. Wingardium leviosa to move objects. It appeared a lot of spells had a Latin base, and Draco knew Latin.

He pulled out his wand and gripped it tight. He hoped this worked.

There was a break in the spells. Draco jumped up, wove his wand, and yelled out, "Ventus!"

A huge gust of wind tore from his wand. Draco could see the ripple of the spell as it flung out across the pub, picking up chairs and tables, as well as the two attackers, and one stray customer that hadn't run out with the rest. It threw them all against the back wall, which cracked under the force of the spell.

Draco stared for a moment, stunned at the result, and more than a little surprised that it had worked, and then Bill ran in, wand drawn. He skidded to a stop when he saw the damage, and then he turned to Draco. He let out a choke of laughter. "Only you, Draco," he said, shaking his head.

Draco looked back down at the wand in his hand. "Apparently this will take some finesse." He put it back into his jacket pocket, a little unnerved.

There was a tinkle of glass as the bartender stood and surveyed the pub.

"I assume you can bill me for the damages," Draco said, and then, "I also assume that I can pay for them."

He shook a few remaining pieces of glass from his clothes, and then walked around the bar, rather than jumping over it. "I also assume we should get out of here?" he asked Bill.

Bill held up a brick triumphantly. "Found the Portkey, and it was only slightly booby-trapped."

Draco didn't quite know what that meant, but Bill held it out to him. "Hold on."

Draco reached out and took hold of the brick, and then they were Portkeying again, a truly uncomfortable sensation of someone hooking him and yanking him backwards, and then he was falling through space, and then he was simply falling backwards.

He hit thick green grass that was warmed by the sun.

He sat up.

There was a very large manor that was stretched out before him. It was constructed of gray stone so pale it looked silver in the sun. It was several stories high, and sprawled out in several different directions, as if someone had started building, and then didn't know when to stop. The architecture was intricately detailed and ornate.

A soft breeze blew across the large lawn, bringing the pleasant scent of flowers and freshly tilled earth. Draco could see the upkeep of a rather large vegetable garden on the side of the manor.

"Welcome home," said Bill, gesturing at the mansion. "We've set up headquarters here. Hope you don't mind."

He started for the house, leaving Draco to wonder why the hell he should care where their headquarters were set up? Also, were people living at headquarters? Did he live at Headquarters?

Didn't he have a home?

He pushed himself to his feet and followed after Bill, who was heading towards the main doors. "Are we still in England?" he asked. "Isn't it a little… hot?" London had been gray and cold, cold enough for a jacket. In fact, all of England had been unseasonably cold for the summer. The news stated it had broken records.

"The manor and grounds have weather charms," said Bill.

Draco canted his gaze up, and then turned a quick circle, trying to tell if the wards were visible. They weren't. But he did see what looked like a rather large stable across the lawn, and there were several gardens dotted throughout the carefully kept grounds. Not like the vegetable garden to the side of the manor, which looked like almost amateur, but flower gardens with carefully cobblestoned paths leading up to fountains and sculptures.

He jogged a few steps to catch up to Bill. "I can't help but think that this is a little obvious for a Headquarters. It's so… big. And exposed. And… well, obvious."

"Oh, absolutely," said Bill. "The Death Eaters know where we are, but the wards here are too strong for them."

"Yes, but you said you'd lost other places. The Ministry and Hogwarts, and I'm assuming those had wards as well."

"Yes, but they were also infiltrated by Death Eaters. It's easy to take down wards if you have someone on the inside. We're a little more discerning about who we let in here. Don't worry." Bill turned and shot him a smile. 'We kept it safe for you."

Safe for him? That was an odd way of wording it, but before Draco could ask what he meant, the main doors flew open and a woman ran out. She looked to be middle aged, or slightly past, and she was also slightly frazzled looking. She had Bill's red hair.

"Oh, sweet Merlin!" she exclaimed.

Draco slowed his steps, expecting the woman to run to Bill, but she headed straight for him, and then suddenly he was caught up in her arms.

"Oh, you're alive! You're alive and safe!" she babbled, squeezing him tight. Her arms were soft, but also strong. She smelled like apples and vanilla. And then she pulled back and cupped his cheeks. "And look at you!" She petted his hair, and patted his cheeks, and hugged him again, tears choking up her words. "You're here. You're safe. We were so worried!"

This was obviously not his mother. They looked nothing alike – and yet, Draco knew that this was how mothers greeted their children after they had been gone for long periods of time, and it felt good to know that he was missed, and that he was welcomed back, so he returned the hug and basked in the attention. It felt good to be cried over, and for his face to be patted, and to receive all her smiles.

She finally stepped back, tears in the corners of her eyes. "I swear you must have grown since I've seen you! And you're more handsome than ever! Just look at you!"

Draco felt his cheeks go red. He ducked his head in embarrassment, glancing up to give her a rather bashful grin. But then her face went cold. She suddenly had her wand in hand, and it was pointed at his chest.

Draco took a hasty step back, all happiness forgotten. What had happened? Was she actually a Death Eater?

"Bill," she said, voice clipped. "Who did you bring back?"

Bill stepped between them, and placed a gentle hand on hers, lowering her wand. "It's Draco."

"That's not Draco," said the woman, still staring at him with that cold expression on her face.

"It's Draco," Bill insisted. "It's just Draco without any memory."

The woman paused. "What?"

"He doesn't remember us. He doesn't remember anything. He's been completely wiped."

"Death Eaters?" the woman asked, her expression falling from cold to concerned.

"No," Bill said. "I think… I think he did it to himself, but naturally he has no idea why or how."

And now the woman looked horrified. "Oh, you poor dear," she said, and then she reached out for him, expression warm, but Draco jerked back, unsettled.

Her expression softened even further, but she didn't look offended. If anything, she smiled at him, fondly. "Well, don't you worry. We'll figure it all out. For now, we'll get you a cup of tea. And how about a sandwich? You must be hungry."

And she gestured for them to follow her into the house, but she moved so quickly that she'd completely disappeared by the time they reached the front doors, and then Draco had to stop and stare.

The front entry, it was… well, it was grand. It was huge and marble and gold and utterly opulent. Draco turned in a circle, trying to take it all in, and then noticed that Bill was watching him with an expectant sort of expression.

"Well?" Bill asked.

Draco didn't quite know what to say to that. "It's… nice?"

He didn't quite get why Bill burst into laughter, but then there was clatter on the stairs and two young men appeared. One had red hair and freckles, obviously another of Bill's family, and the other had dark messy hair, green eyes, and a scar on his forehead.

"Harry Potter," Draco said, because he remembered the description.

"Draco Malfoy," Harry returned with an easy sort of grin. "You've been away awhile. Glad you're back."

"Thanks," said Draco.

Bill clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to say hello to the wife. But find me when you're done catching up." And then, grinning a little wickedly, he headed down the front hall. Draco turned back to the other two.

"Oh, man," said the red-head. "My sister is going to kill you."

"Sorry, what?" Draco asked.

"You've been gone five years," said the red-head. "Five _years_. What the hell have you been doing?"

"Translating the Merlin tomb, or so I'm told," said Draco. He stuck his hands in his pockets, not quite knowing what else to say. He rocked back on his heels. "What have you two been up to?"

"What have we been up to?" the red-head demanded, tone incensed. "What the bloody hell do you think we've been doing?"

"Ron," said Harry in a reproving tone. He reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, but the red-head, Ron, shrugged him off.

"We've been fighting a war! We've been fighting battles and saving lives and you asked what we've been up to? Where the hell have you been?"

"New York City, most recently," said Draco. "Before that, Toronto, Moscow, Seattle, Sydney, Boston, Chicago, Berlin, and -,"

"Well, maybe we should all go on vacations while the bloody world is ending!" Ron exploded.

"Ron Weasley," scolded a female voice. Draco looked up to a see a woman with thick curly brown hair descend the stairs. "You could at least ask what he was doing in a those cities before assuming it was for pleasure." She looked at Draco and smiled. "I am glad to see you. We were all worried that perhaps – well, perhaps you had been killed."

"No, still alive," said Draco. He spun around to survey the entryway once more, because it was really that grand, and then turned back to the three. "So…," he said.

Harry raised his eyebrows. Ron tipped his head to the side. The woman frowned. "Are you feeling okay?"

Draco shrugged a shoulder. "Hard to say. The trip here wasn't bad, but it's all a little…,"

"Hard coming home?" the woman asked, sympathetically.

And Draco didn't know if he'd use that word to describe a war headquarters, but he shrugged again, rocked back on his heels, and forced a pleasant smile. "Sure, something like that."

The woman paused. Ron reached for his pocket where his wand was sticking out. Harry's was already in his hand.

Draco took a step backwards.

"You aren't really Draco, are you?" Harry asked.

Draco narrowed his gaze, feeling slightly irritated. "You tell me."

"Is it polyjuice?" the woman asked. "Some sort of shape-shifter?"

"Shape shifter?" Draco asked. "You have… there are… shape shifters? _Really_?"

"Your cousin's a shape-shifter," said Ron. "What are you playing at?"

Draco raised his hands in a helpless gesture and dropped them again. "Apparently I'm playing a very bad game of catch-up."

"How do you now remember metamorphmagi?" the woman asked.

"Imperius curse," said Ron, drawing his wand.

"That wouldn't make him stupid," said the woman.

"Not stupid," Harry corrected. "Memory loss. You have no idea who we are."

Draco flashed him a quick grin. "You're sharp." He pointed at Harry. "You're Harry Potter." He looked at Ron. "Red-hair and pale and freckles. You must be a Weasley." He looked at the woman. "No idea who you are."

"You don't remember Hermione?" Ron spluttered.

"If he didn't remember his own cousin, he's not going to remember me," said Hermione. She held out her hand. "Hermione Granger."

Draco shook her hand. "Draco Malfoy. But you already knew that. Nice to meet you, or should I say, meet you again. I don't remember the first time."

He stepped back and did another turn around the entryway, because he kept noticing new things – like the chandelier. Was it actually crystal? And was it really gold, or just gold overlay? Surely some of it must be glass, or else the whole thing would be worth… well, it hurt Draco's head to think about it.

"This is a ridiculous place to have a Headquarters during a war," he said, and then turned back to the other three. They were looking at him rather oddly.

"That's why you're acting so bloody weird," Ron breathed out.

"Weird?" Draco asked.

Ron stepped forward and poked him in the shoulder. "It's like… it's like you're a real person."

Draco batted his hand away. "Of course I'm real. What the hell does that mean?"

"How much memory did you lose?" Hermione asked. "What happened? Was it a memory spell? Was it Death Eaters?"

Draco shrugged. "I know my name is Draco. And Bill filled me in on the whole - ," he wriggled his fingers in the air – "magic thing."

"Oh, Merlin," Ron groaned.

"That's… alarming," Hermione said.

Harry said nothing, but his face tensed. Draco watched his jaw work, and then Harry forced a smile on his face "Well, I'm sure we'll figure it out, right?"

Draco smiled back. "Sure, why not?"

No one felt comforted.

OoOoOoOoO

Severus strode through the manor, silently cursing the fact that it was so inefficiently large. He had to ascend from the dungeons, where his potions were brewing, walk through the entire East Wing, which was functioning as the temporary housing for displaced families of Order members, and then passed through the grand entryway and into the informal dining room.

His eyes swept the room. Bill was there, as well as Molly Weasley and the three Gryffindor golden students. And there, at the table eating a sandwich, was Draco Malfoy.

The pressure that had been building in his chest for every year Draco was gone eased slightly. Severus let out a breath. "So pleased you've deigned to return to the fold, Mr. Malfoy," he drawled, and continued into the room.

Draco looked up. "Uh, thanks, I guess."

Severus stopped, and then his wand was out and leveled at the impostor. "This is not Draco Malfoy."

The impostor dropped his sandwich back onto his plate. "Seriously? You too?"

"Severus, it's okay," Bill said.

Severus wanted to say it wasn't okay, because he knew Draco, and that wasn't him, but the impostor spoke up first.

"Okay?" he demanded, with far too much expression in his voice. It was easy to pick out the emotions, exasperation, irritation, and confusion. " _Okay_? How is it that I can be perfectly normal, even polite, and suddenly people are threatening me with wands? What the hell? Why does no one think I am who I am?" He pushed off from the table and stood. His hands were clenched by his sides. "Is there a code word I should be saying? Should I be speaking a different language? I know a whole bunch."

Severus lowered his wand. He studied the young man. It was Draco's form; he was sure of it. But none of his mannerisms. He was too normal, too expressive, almost as if he'd never been indoctrinated in Pureblood society.

"Ah," he said, reaching the correct conclusion. He lowered his wand. "You appear to be missing vital memories of your childhood, Mr. Malfoy."

"He's missing all of his memories," said Bill.

"I remember most things, if you want to get technical," Draco bit back, and yes, that was Draco. "I remember several languages, the physical principles of the world, mathematics, biology, chemistry, and a whole lot more. And yet, apparently, I'm not myself."

"You're too expressive," Severus told him. "The Draco we are familiar with is much more… contained."

"Frigid," Ron chimed in over him.

"Ron!" Hermione hissed, and then to Draco. "You're usually a little more… well, civil. And… aloof."

Severus watched the interplay of emotions of Draco's face. It was startling to see how easy he could read him now.

"I do hope your memory loss doesn't also encompass why you felt the need to leave for five years?" Severus asked, claiming a seat at the table and accepting a cup of tea from Molly.

His question was met with silence. Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache starting to bloom. He looked back up at the table. He was, not for the first time, startled to see that people were looking at him. No, not at him, _to_ him. Ever since Dumbledore died, he'd been the de facto head of the Order. The reluctant, de facto head. Thankfully, and Merlin knew that this was a strange thing to be thankful for, but thankfully Potter had done a good deal of stepping up. Him and Bill Weasley, who had a decent brain in his head.

"Well, it goes without saying that the first mission is getting Draco his memory back," Severus said.

"Agreed," said Bill.

"The first question is, why did you go away in the first place?" Severus turned to Draco.

Draco groaned and dropped his head onto the table. "I don't know!"

"Second question," Severus followed up with, steadfastly ignoring the theatrics. "Where have you been?"

Draco picked his head up. "Where haven't I been?" he asked, and then shook his head. "Actually, before we even do this, is this everyone? I do not want to keep repeating myself over and over again, and I'd really like not to have people threaten me with magic and hocus pocus and whatever else simply because I'm openly expressing my state of confusion and frustration."

There was something derisive about the way he referred to magic that had Severus's expertly honed instincts screaming that this was trouble.

"Hocus pocus?" Molly asked.

"Ah, about that," Bill said. "So, when I found him, he didn't know what magic was."

There were a couple of shouts from those at the table. Draco thunked his head down on the table again, narrowly missing his sandwich. Severus considered all the ramifications of the fact that Draco, mastermind, skilled dueler, dark magic expert, and perhaps one of the greatest threats to Voldemort in the war, had no idea what magic was, and considered thunking his head onto the table as well. Except someone would need to keep all of their brain cells functioning and not give into theatrics, and it looked like it'd have to be him.

"Call an emergency meeting," he said.

OoOoOoOo

Please leave a review! I will hope to get another chapter up by next weekend.


	4. Meeting the New Order

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did... well, that'd be awkward. Considering I'm re-writing all the major plot points. And killing off characters.

Author's note: So... I don't know if I'm going to be able to keep up with weekly updates. As I'm writing, my chapters are getting longer and longer. The first chapter was two thousand words, the second was three thousand, the third was four thousand. And this one is five thousand words. I will try though. Because it'll keep me on track. And I feel I owe it to all of you for making you wait so long in the past...

oOoOoOoOoOo

 **One year ago...**

Ginny nearly walked by the letter.

She was home late from work, and it had been a hard day. They'd lost the case against a group of young Death Eaters who had tormented and assaulted a young Muggle-born witch. Well, not lost it, per se. The young men had been convicted of assault, but not malicious assault. If she and Preston had been able to prove that these young men had been Death Eaters, then the sentence would have been five times as severe. But the judge had ruled in favor of the defense. He had determined that these young men were not really Death Eaters. They had just been drinking too much. They were guilty of bad judgment, but nothing more malevolent. Because this was their first offense, they had been sentenced to probation and community service. Nothing more.

It was a difficult blow. And it proved that the Death Eaters were getting smarter. They weren't Marking their new recruits. They were keeping their meetings and doctrine silent. They were hiring lawyers to get convictions on smaller crimes, and even taking plea deals to avoid getting a convicted of hate crimes.

It was disheartening, and Ginny planned on taking a very long, very hot shower. And then she wanted a home-cooked meal and a glass of wine. And then bed. With this plan in mind, she nearly walked straight passed the letter, but then stopped, and turned.

The letter was propped up on her vanity along with the rest of the day's mail. This letter had only her name written on the front, no sender address, but she knew whose handwriting that was. She had read and re-read the letter Draco had left her, four years ago, when he had first gone missing. She had memorized every word and every letter, and now here was another.

She crossed over to the vanity and picked the letter up with trembling fingers. Hope flared in her chest, bright and fluttering, but she quashed it back down, not wanting to be disappointed. She quickly opened it.

 _Dear Ginny,_

 _If you get this letter, then it means I have been gone for too long._

 _Odds are, you are not going to get this letter, but I am writing it just in case. I have it dated for four years after my departure. If I am not back by now, then either I am not as smart as I thought I was, or I am dead. As I am a genius, both of these things are unlikely. Which really just proves my earlier point that you aren't actually going to get this letter. But let's put probability and logic aside. If you get this letter, it means something has gone wrong, and you deserve to know that._

 _I wish I could tell you why I left. And what will be occupying my time while I am away. I wish that I had said good-bye in person._

 _We both know that last statement was a lie because you know how rubbish I am at anything emotional. But I do wish I had kissed you._

 _A few things to say to you now: First, I know I said this in the first letter, but I am waiting for you. Please do not feel obligated to wait for me. You're young, smart, and gorgeous. And if I am not back by now, then there is a good chance I am not coming back at all. Please do not waste your life on me._

 _Second, I can't give you the manor straight out, because we aren't married, but I am signing over permanent guardianship to you. I gave it to Bill at first because I trust he'll run it well while I am gone these first few years, but if I am dead… well, I think you'd be more pragmatic about what needs to get done. And you won't be afraid to make changes. Also, I want to be able to leave you something good, and the manor is a lovely place. It is your home now, so make yourself comfortable and enjoy it._

 _Third, I'm sorry. I am sorry I left. I am sorry I am not back. I am sorry that I have failed. Most of all, I am sorry I am not with you now._

 _Lastly, and most importantly, you are the woman I love. I had never thought I could love someone as I love you. My love has always been a selfish, temperamental emotion. But you I love wholly and purely._

 _Please forgive me._

 _Yours,_

 _Draco_

Ginny dropped to her knees and sobbed.

oOoOoOo

 **Present day...**

Funny, but to Draco, it looked a lot like he was actually sitting down to dinner, not an emergency meeting. He looked around at those already gathered, wondering if anyone else thought this was strange. No one seemed as confused as he was. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were at the end of the table, helping themselves to fresh bread and butter. Mr. Weasley was reading the paper. Mrs. Weasley was busying setting out platters and dishes while some truly wonderful smells were coming from the kitchen. Bill was helping set the table, and then he slipped into the chair beside him.

"This is the emergency meeting, right?" Draco asked.

Bill nodded. "Emergency meetings involve our strike teams, intelligence teams, Ministry liaisons, and logistics. Harry," he nodded down at the table, "runs one of the strike teams."

"Should I know what that means?" Draco asked, a little testily.

"If you had just waited a moment, I was going to explain it to you," Bill said.

"Oh."

"Strike teams are our rapid response and combat teams. The Ministry has its Civis Arma forces for rapid deployment, but they're primarily concerned with neutralizing the immediate threat, protecting civilian life, and reclaiming lost ground. We're more concerned with cutting Voldemort's power from under him, sabotaging his forces, and waging war."

"Civis Arma is the military waging a politically correct war, and you are the resistance fighters," Draco summed up.

"Exactly."

"How many strike teams are there?"

"Three teams, and they're on call in eight hour shifts. Harry runs one, and Ron and Hermione are on his team, as well as Sirius Black – he's the guy that just came in."

Draco looked at the man. Dark hair and eyes, fair skin, and a sense of laughter about him. The latter was proven when he leaned over Harry, said something to the three gathered, and they all burst into laughter.

"He's actually distantly related to you," said Bill.

Draco jerked a little in surprise, and then looked back at the man. He finally looked up, spotted Draco, and did a bit of a double take.

"Draco?" he asked.

"Wait, Draco?" asked another man, coming into the room. He looked to be about Draco's age. There was a rather sizeable scar on the side of his face. He saw Draco, and actually staggered back a step.

"Draco?" he asked. "Draco, is that-?"

Harry pulled him over to the side and whispered something in his ear.

"That's Blaise Zabini," said Bill. "You went to school together. Dean Thomas is behind him. They're on strike team two. And those two men coming in are Rudy Costace and George Parrish. They're Aurors, which are our police force, and members of the Civis Arma."

The two men wore faded red robes and serious expressions. Their shoulders were tensed, eyes alert. They looked surprised to see Draco, but nothing more. Draco was pretty sure that meant he didn't know them personally. He watched as Mrs. Weasley took in the state of the men, and immediately began fussing. The man called Rudy – the younger man – gave a bit of a roguish grin, clearly pleased with the attention. George looked a little more formal.

"And that's Pansy," said Bill with a bit of a grim note in his voice.

Draco looked over. A gorgeous woman had come in. No, not walked in, flaunted in. She paused for a moment in the doorway, shaking back long dark hair. She wore a business skirt-suit, but the skirt was two inches too short to be professional, and he couldn't tell if she had a shirt underneath her blazer or not. There was an impressive amount of cleavage. She wore an outer-robe that appeared to be silk.

Her eyes lit onto Draco, and something changed in her expression. He didn't know what it was, but she tossed her head back once more and continued her saunter into the room. She ran her fingers over Rudy's neck as she passed, and he turned, an appreciative look on his face. George elbowed him in the side. Blaise pulled out a chair for her and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. He didn't look down her blazer, even though he had a perfect view. They must be friends.

"Pansy's in intelligence," said Bill. "Well, a bit of a freelancer, but helpful. She's not… she and Charlie… well, they were serious about each other. And then… when he died, she didn't take it too well."

Draco looked at her, wondering if he could tell that she wasn't doing well. She didn't appear to be upset. In fact, she looked fine. She was laughing and flirting with Rudy and George at the same time.

"That's the second third of our intelligence," said Bill as another woman came into the room. She had pale skin, a snub nose, and hair that was currently electric blue. "She's actually your cousin, Tonks."

"Shape shifter," said Draco, remembering the conversation he'd had with Hermione.

"Tonks does infiltration work, whereas Pansy … ,"

"Seduces her way into information?" Draco surmised.

Bill looked a little pained, but nodded.

"Who's the third member of intelligence?"

"Ginny," said Bill.

Draco raised his eyebrows.

"Ginny works in the justice department," Bill explained. "Specifically, trying and convicting Death Eaters. It gives her access to a lot of confidential information – overseas trips, business ventures, money transfers, that sort of thing. We've uncovered quite a few Death Eaters due to monitoring their finances."

"So Ginny will be here," Draco said, feeling something flutter a little nervously in his chest.

Bill shook his head. "She's in a closed meeting with a judge and Advocate Preston. We couldn't get word to her."

The flutter was replaced with a pang of disappointment, and then several more people were coming into the room.

Bill introduced them as Oliver Wood and Hestia Jones, who were on strike team three. Fred and George, more Weasleys and identical twins, were in weapons development, and Draco shouldn't trust anything they give him.

Fleur came in next. She greeted Bill with a kiss, and then Severus arrived, looking a little pinched around the eyes. He strode to the head of the table. There were a few empty chairs. Draco knew that Ginny should have filled one, but didn't know who else was missing. He was going to ask Bill, but then Severus cleared his throat, and the conversation around the table went silent.

"Thank you for your attention," he said in a drolling sort of voice. "By now it's obvious why we've brought you here. We would like to welcome the return of an important member, and also share some vital information with you." He paused. "Or should I say, lack of information.

Draco shot the man a glare, because that just seemed uncalled for. Every face turned to him, and he shifted a little, uncomfortable.

Mrs. Weasley inadvertently saved him by whisking an entire dinner onto the table. And suddenly everyone was more focused on serving themselves heaping plates of food and passing dishes than looking at Draco. And Draco came to the realization that this was not a conference table, rather a dinner table.

He leaned over to Bill and whispered, "Is it normal to have emergency war meetings over dinner?"

"Yes," said Bill. "You get used to it."

Draco shrugged a little, and then helped himself to a plate of roasted chicken, potatoes, and vegetables. The food was good, far better than the food that Draco had been feeding himself for the past three months – and probably the last five years. Mrs. Weasley was showered with compliments, and Severus, at the end of the table, looked a little annoyed at the interruption, but in a resigned sort of way.

The distraction the food provided only lasted about twenty minutes, and then as the diners started getting full, or moving onto second helpings, Draco noticed more and more people were looking his way. Blaise was trying to whisper something at him. Pansy raised her eyebrows at him, and Draco didn't know what it meant. He shifted in his chair a little and drummed his fingers on the table. He jounced his leg up and down. He sighed, slumped back in his chair, and tried taking in a few deep breaths. The two red-heads with identical faces gave him odd looks. Draco started fidgeting again.

Bill pressed on his shoulder to get him to stop. Draco did, rather ill-humoredly, and suffered through the rest of the meal. It wasn't long, thankfully, and then Mrs. Weasley was clearing the table and breaking out coffee and tea – and that seemed to be a cue for everyone else to start talking about work again.

But Draco noticed that the mood was different. Before there was tension and grim faces, now there were relaxed expressions and a few bits of laughter here and there. There was more energy as well. It made sense- from a biological view. Eating was a natural way to decrease stress and anxiety because it was a physical cue that the current environment was safe. Draco wondered if the dinners were deliberately held to distress the attendees, or just a happy accident.

"If we could now return to our previously scheduled conversation," Severus said, not bothering to rise from his chair this time.

The conversation died down again.

"As you can see, Mr. Malfoy has returned to us," Severus said. "So, here to explain where he's been for the past five years, is Mr. Malfoy – or the closest approximation we have to him."

Draco bristled, an angry report on his tongue, but Bill gave him a warning nudge. Draco bit back his response.

"Mr. Malfoy, you have the floor," said Severus.

Draco looked around the table. The faces were expectant, hopeful. He sighed. "So, I have spent the past five years deciphering the Merlin Tomb. I don't know why. I don't have my memories. Bill says that it's most likely that I mind-wiped myself, so until I get my memory back, I'm not entirely sure what the code is for or what it does."

There was a moment of silence. Draco could pick out varying expressions of horror and frustration from the people seated around the table.

"So… how much did you lose?" Blaise asked. His expression was falling more towards concern than frustration, which was nice.

"Well, I don't know who any of you are," said Draco.

"And he doesn't know what magic is," said Bill.

There was a general uproar from the table – at least, from those who didn't know already. Severus was quick to rein them in by tapping his wand on the table. It made a sound like a judge's gavel.

A magic noise spell.

Rather pointless, Draco thought.

"If Mr. Malfoy felt it was important enough to wipe his memory for the sake of this code," Severus said, "then it is safe to assume that it must be crucial to the war."

"Maybe it's a way to defeat Voldemort," said the man called Sirius Black.

"I think the most pressing concern is where are Mr. Malfoy's memories," said Severus. "Draco, do you have any clue where your memories might be?"

Draco frowned a little at his phrasing. "Still in my head, I'd imagine. Maybe there's a memory trigger or something to unlock them."

"People can pull their memories out and store them," said Bill. "It's actually more likely you did that."

"What do you mean, _pull them out_?" Draco demanded, feeling a little panicked.

"You could have left them here, or somewhere else," said Bill.

"Hope you didn't leave them in Hogwarts," said one of the twins.

"Yeah, that would be a problem," said the other.

They laughed, but Draco wasn't hearing them, not really, because he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his memories were _outside_ of his head.

"Boys, please," Mrs. Weasley scolded.

"Just saying," they moped together.

"Wait," said Draco, because this was really hard information to assimilate. "Memories can take on physical form?"

"It's a little complicated, but quite feasible to take out most of your memories," said Severus. "You would have had the knowledge and the power to do so."

"But if my memories are somehow physical, that means then can be destroyed," said Draco. "Or lost, or broken, or – how was this a good idea?"

"It's alright," said Bill, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We'll find them."

"But what if they were at this Hogwarts place? You said it was destroyed."

"You wouldn't have put them in Hogwarts. You didn't trust Dumbledore so far as you could throw him," said Severus.

"What if someone took them?" Draco asked, still panicking. "Or someone moved them, accidentally? Why on earth would I have taken my memories out of my head?"

"You might have feared capture," said Bill.

Draco paused. He didn't remember being captured, but something flickered in the back of his head. His arm went to his shoulder. He remembered pain.

"Draco?" Bill asked.

"Who would want to capture me?" Draco asked.

"Voldemort and his followers," said Bill. "Did you see them? Were they after you?"

The phantom pain slipped away, leaving no memory, just a blank wall. "Not in the past three months. But I can't speak for the other times."

"Wiping your memory might have been the best way to protect yourself," said Bill. "Or protect the code. You can't tell someone something you don't know, not even under Veritaserum."

Draco arched an eyebrow. "You guys have a truth serum? Like sodium pentathol?"

"Far more effective," said Severus with a slight sneer.

"First order of business then," said Bill. "We find Draco's memories."

"Two orders of business," Severus corrected. "Bill, you help Draco find his memories, and meanwhile I want some more information about this code. We'll probably need assistance from the Ministry."

"We'll tell Kingsley and King Arthur," said Rudy, giving a nod.

"King Arthur?" Draco asked.

"Head of the Civis Arma," Bill explained. "King Arthur is a title, not an actual name. It protects the identity of the leader."

"An identity we really should be privy to," said Arthur Weasley, a little sternly. "It would make these meetings more productive, don't you think?"

Rudy smiled and stood up. "That's on a need-to-know basis. When you have something that might stop Voldemort, we'll revisit the subject. But right now, we're concerned with government stability, and protecting our leaders."

"You mean busy negotiating with Death Eaters," Arthur said, derision in his voice, and Draco could tell there were a few other Order members who agreed with him.

"We're keeping the country together as long as possible, while you figure out the Prophecy," said Rudy, with the same good cheer as before. "And if Harry hadn't had already been an Order member, we'd be working with him too. But as he's got you all to help him, we'll focus on making sure there's a country left when this is all over."

He gave a short nod and left, George Parrish following him. Draco watched them go. There was an undercurrent to that discussion that hinted at an ongoing political debate. Part of him knew that he was probably good at politics, and yet it seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

"Who's ready for dessert?" Mrs. Weasley asked, breaking the unsteady quiet that followed the two Aurors' departure.

She brought out a chocolate and raspberry trifle, and while Draco ate, he was bombarded with questions.

"You really don't remember me?" Blaise asked.

"Can you still do magic?" one of the twins asked.

The other twin shoved his brother. "He's lost his memory, not gone Squib."

"Do you remember Hogwarts at all?" Blaise asked.

And then people were trying to fill him in on all the latest happenings. Did he know that Seamus got married? Well, no. And he didn't even know who Seamus was. And Hermione had graduated valedictorian, and Filch had nearly been killed when Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts, but Mrs. Norris had saved him by biting any Death Eater that came close to him.

Why was she biting?

And the Quidditch World cup had been cancelled.

"What's Quidditch?" he asked, and that launched another round of explanation, and seriously? Flying brooms? Were they just trying to be stereotypical now?

Oh, and Dean was now a werewolf?

"What?" Draco demanded, because this was getting really ridiculous now.

"Fenrir bit him," said Harry.

Dean rolled up his sleeve to show him the scar.

"Werewolf?" Draco demanded again. "What, are there vampires now too?"

"Well…," said Harry. He trailed off, and looked a little sympathetic to his plight.

And then the door opened, and a very large man stepped through. A very large man with a very large beard, and someone that large couldn't be possible, could he?

"That's Hagrid," Bill whispered in his ear. "He's half giant."

"But of course," Draco snapped. "Giants and werewolves and vampires – and what else? Unicorns?"

Bill was suspiciously silent.

"Fuck this," Draco spat. He scooted his chair back.

"Oy, you're back, Draco," the large man greeted him. "Glad to see you!"

"Likewise, I'm sure," Draco managed, and then he strode out of the room and kept walking.

That turned out to be a mistake, because he didn't know where he was going. And the manor was big. No, more than big, it was the size of a shopping mall. He walked down far too many halls, and then ran into what must be some sort of refuge wing. Children were running in the halls and shouting and playing. A few parents were watching them, and then they stared at him, like he was a ghost.

Were ghosts real, too?

"Draco!"

Draco stopped and turned. Bill was jogging after him. Draco waited for him to catch up and glared a little.

"I'm sorry," Bill apologized. "I know it's a lot to take in. That was… we'll take it slower next time."

"Next time? Next time I lose my memories, you mean?"

Bill sighed a little. "No, tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll take it slow. I'll explain as we go. And Harry and Hermione can help. They didn't know about magic until they got their acceptance letters."

"Acceptance letters?"

"To Hogwarts," Bill explained. "But, how about for now, we just get you to your room and you can get some sleep?"

"Do I have my own room?" Draco asked.

Bill laughed. "Draco, you have a suite of rooms."

"Oh," said Draco, not quite knowing how he rated that luxury, but pleased none-the-less. "Yes, that sounds good."

"Come on," said Bill. "And I'll give you a bit of a tour on the way there, huh?" And for some reason, Bill found that funny, but Draco didn't know why. Bill pointed out where the family wing ended, which Draco made a mental point not to visit again, and then Bill pointed out which was the dining room used for meetings, and what dining room was used for regular dining. And he pointed out where the rest of the Order was living, and also directions to the dungeons, which was creepy.

And then they reached Draco's room.

"We'll catch up tomorrow," said Bill.

"Yeah, sure," said Draco.

Bill left. Draco turned to the door, reached out to the door handle, and it immediately swung open. Almost as if it was waiting for him.

Draco stepped inside and stared for a moment.

The room was huge. And the bed was… well, it was even larger than a California King. And there was a small sitting area in the room, as well as a very large bathroom and a study, all attached.

There were personal items in the room was well. Draco poured over them like they could return his memory, but he didn't remember winning any of the trophies. There were several for thestral riding (what was a thestral?) and even more for dueling (which sounded dangerous). And there were books – a lot of books. Make that a ton of books. The titles were foreign and just plain odd. Draco wondered if reading them would answer some of his questions, or make him more confused.

At the very least, he needed to sleep. He showered and changed into sleep clothes he found in the wardrobe. He was bigger than the clothes – a little taller and heavier, and wow – he must have been a skinny kid, because he was trim _now_ , and these clothes looked ridiculously small. The seams expanded to fit him, which weirded him out a bit. Magical seams, apparently.

Draco dropped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was carved and gilded with gold accents. He contemplated the fact that this was his life now.

And then the door was flung open. Draco rolled off the bed, startled, and a young woman rushed inside.

"Wait – Ginny!" Bill called after her.

Draco had just enough time to realize that this was Ginny and to get an impression of her face – pretty, dark eyes, red hair – and then she was in his arms.

He caught her, of course he did, and then her lips were on his, and her hands in his hair – and he was caught off guard for a moment. And then his brain caught up and he returned the kiss because this… this was good. She kissed him like she was drinking him in, and her body was warm against his, and he could feel her trembling a little.

"Ginny," Draco heard Bill say, somewhat urgently in the doorway.

She pulled away just a little and stared up at him. Draco took in her face. Her eyes were a bright brown. She had a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her lips were pink with a cupid's bow, and her hair was a gorgeous red-gold. She was altogether captivating.

"Hello," Ginny said, her voice no more than a whisper.

"Hi," Draco whispered back, and he didn't know her yet, but oh, how he wanted to.

"Ginny," Bill said again, this time sounding pained.

"I missed you," Ginny said again, still that same whisper.

And Draco couldn't say it back, not really, because he hadn't missed her. He'd missed the idea of her, sure, but not her in particular. He reached up and touched her face.

She tipped her head to the side, and her eyes searched his, like she was looking for something. Draco knew what she was looking for. Recognition. She pulled back half an inch.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"No," said Draco.

He watched her fight to keep a neutral expression, but he could read the devastation there.

"Are we," he asked, "by any chance, married?"

She laughed once, the way someone laughs when they first hear bad news because they don't know what else to do. And then she stepped back. Her hands rose to cover her face, but he could see the tears welling up in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," said Draco, lacking anything better to say. It was the wrong thing to say, because that made her sob, and then she was whirling around and running out of the room. Bill chased after her and the door swung shut behind them.

Draco let out a heavy sigh and flopped back onto the bed. He stared back up at the ceiling and fell asleep with the overwhelming sense of wretchedness at having disappointed a whole house full of people. And he didn't even know who those people were.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Ginny listened to Bill's story about finding Draco. She listened to his theories about his memories. She listened to him make wild speculations about the code. She listened to his platitudes and words of reassurance, and then she went to her room, shut herself up in the shower, and cried.

She cried for a full hour, drowning her tears in hot water and lavender-scented bath soap.

And then, after that hour, she felt a little bit better. Once the initial disappointment and grief and hurt had passed, the logical side of her brain kicked in.

Draco was alive. He was alive when Ginny had feared the worst – had, in fact, been told to believe the worse, by none other than Draco himself in the letter he'd sent her a year ago.

But he was alive. And she believed what Bill believed, that Draco had wiped his memories himself. And there was no way that Draco, genius that he was, would have wiped his memories without a way to retrieve them again.

She looked at herself in the mirror. "Be happy," she told herself sternly. "Draco is alive, and everything will work itself out in the end."

She nodded once, and then rummaged around for some clothes to wear. But what did one wear when they were seeing their boyfriend for the first time in five years and said boyfriend had amnesia? And it was late at night. She couldn't exactly dress up for the occasion.

She settled on comfort over fashion, leggings and a soft, over-large sweater. She braided her hair and debated whether or not she should put make-up on. A glance at the clock told her it really was too late, so she left her room and walked next door to Draco's.

She knocked on the door. There wasn't an answer, so she pushed the latch and stepped inside.

She had kept Draco's room the same. No one had changed a thing. Sometimes she came in to sleep on his bed – when she was worried or frustrated or scared. She'd even sprayed his cologne to keep the room smelling like him.

She gently shut the door behind her. The lights were still on and Draco was lying on his bed. Not properly though. He was sideways on the bed, pillows to his left. She could see that his eyes were open, but he didn't move, just stared at the ceiling. He'd been sleeping, that much was apparent by his loose-limbed sprawl.

She crossed over to the bed. "Sorry to wake you."

His eyes finally slid over to her. They were tired and dulled and full of pain, and so much more expressive than she'd ever seen him. It was both foreign and impossibly familiar.

She crawled up onto the bed and sat beside him. He returned his gaze to the ceiling. "I don't remember you."

His voice was flat and instantly recognizable. Ginny felt the urge to grab his hand, but refrained.

"I know," she said instead.

He reached a hand up to scrub at his face. "I don't know anyone."

"Bill told me."

He sighed and then propped himself up on his elbows to look at her. His expression was so frustrated and exhausted and so _Draco_ , that she immediately wanted to make him laugh. It was an urge she often had when Draco was at his most serious, so she leaned in and asked, "Am I hotter than you pictured?"

For just a moment, he stared at her, and then he dropped back onto the bed and laughed. He laughed long and hard, and Ginny's breath caught just watching him. He'd never looked so easy and careless before, so free of expression. She couldn't help but laugh as well.

He pushed himself up and sat in front of her, both of them cross-legged, their knees touching. "I was afraid to picture you," he said. "But yes, much hotter."

"Well, good," said Ginny. "I'd hate to disappoint."

He watched her for a moment and Ginny watched back.

"This is weird," he finally said. "I feel like… I feel like I need to learn you all over again."

"That's fine," Ginny said. "I probably need to learn you too."

"Bill says we can probably find my memories," said Draco, and then his face screwed up, almost boyish in distaste. "But… I don't know. I guess I don't have much faith in something I don't understand."

"That's very like you," Ginny said.

"Are you… or rather, _how_ upset are you that I'm not myself?" Draco asked. And then he glanced away, like he didn't want to know her answer, but she could see himself tensing, preparing for the worst.

Ginny reached out and grabbed his hands. He looked back at her, and didn't shy away from her touch.

"You're still you," Ginny said. "You're still the same, I can see that. You're just… a little more comfortable, is all."

Draco didn't look entirely convinced. She lay down next to him. He had no problem pulling her close so that her head rested on his shoulder.

"I miss you, of course," she said. "And I'm angry that you left. And that I thought you were dead. And obviously this was not the re-union I was hoping for, but you're here now, and we'll get your memories."

"Just like that?" he asked.

"Just like that," she agreed.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

Yay Ginny and Draco, back together... sort of. Please leave a review on your way out!


	5. Seductions and Surprises

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I own a couple really cool Christmas gifts though, so that's pretty cool. Like a pineapple vase. Seriously, guys. A vase in the shape of a pineapple. Amazing!

Apologies for the delay. I blame the holidays and also Pansy and Percy - because their story line just got way more complicated than I meant it to get. Hope you enjoy.

oOoOoOoOoOo

 **Nine Months ago…**

Pansy stared at Percy Weasley. It wasn't the first time she'd stared at him. She'd been making a habit of it for the past few weeks. When he was aware of her, or when others were in the office, she just looked. When no one else was around, like right now, she glared. It was the most therapeutic part of her day.

This was the man that had gotten Charlie killed.

The Ministry had fallen just a few months ago. That was how Charlie had died – in the battle – along with hundreds of others. But Pansy didn't care about the others. Just Charlie.

She kicked her legs lightly as she glared and the desk she was sitting on, a cheap metal thing, protested under her weight. And she didn't even weigh that much. The desks at the original Ministry building were built of finely crafted cherry wood. They, and the rest of the building, had all been lost in the battle.

Now, at this new, make-shift Ministry, things weren't so nice. In fact, they were all hand-me-downs. The Ministry had been relocated to the top half of the Auror Academy building, and all of their office furniture was either acquisitioned from the students and faculty, or donated from the public.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had led the move. The other members of the Ministry – the cabinet and the councilors and the Wizengamot – had wanted a replacement building that was equally as grand and opulent as the original Ministry building. There was a big push to take Blenheim Palace from the Muggles.

But Kingsley had simply stated the Auror Academy would do, and moved in. He'd scoped out the small lecture room on the top floor and claimed it as his office. There was nothing special about it. It was modestly furnished with a desk up front, and a set of long tables and chairs for the students. There were windows, sans curtains, and the view was dismal and bleak.

Kingsley had pulled a table over to a window, dragged a chair behind it, and declared himself ready to work. And with that sort of example from the Minister himself, no one else could complain.

Pansy hadn't witnessed that event herself. It had become legend though.

Percy Weasley had worked magic in the room though. Not actual magic. He'd simply found people who wanted to do some good for their Minister after the attack. An antique desk set had been given to Kingsley from the museum – it was Lionel Holstead's desk, a great wizarding general. Several philanthropists had donated art works from their personal collection to the office, and a few furniture suppliers had volunteered their goods as well – curtains, lamps, chairs, area rugs, and more. In short, Percy had turned an old classroom into a real Minister's office, and he'd turned the interior decorating of the Minister's office into a patriotic duty. A few feel-good articles about the nation coming together to create the Minister's office had run throughout the papers over the next weeks, and so he'd also orchestrated a lift in the country's morale as well.

As an Assistant Minister, Percy Weasley was an irreplaceable miracle-worker. But being an excellent Assistant Minister didn't mean he was a good brother, and that was the criteria by which Pansy was judging him.

She watched him work from the open bullpen outside of the office. His own desk was in the front of the room, making him into a receptionist of sorts for the Minister. There was an entire row of filing cabinets behind him, and he was flipping through them now, going more by touch than by sight. He snagged the folder he wanted, flipped through a few pages, and then sighed.

"Ms. Parkinson," he said, voice testy.

He hadn't even looked her way, not really. She was visible to him, directly in his line of sight. The classroom-turned-office had a large doorway, and the doors were usually open. Kingsley wanted to be easily accessible due to the amount of crises that occurred on a daily basis.

Pansy was currently sitting on the desk belonging to the public relations officer. She wasn't in public relations. She was, however, dating said officer. Not that dating was the right word for it. Seducing was a better fit.

Now that her name was called, she hopped off the desk she'd been lounging on and stepped into the Minister's office. She spared a quick glance at Kingsley's desk, but it was empty, as she suspected it would be. Kingsley would have been gone home for the night, whereas her day was just beginning.

Percy Weasley's day might last him another hour or so. His workdays were unparalleled by anyone else in the office. He consistently arrived before Kingsley, who arrived promptly at seven each morning, and stayed an hour or two later than Kingsley as well. And Kingsley usually left at eight pm. When there were emergencies, Percy didn't go home at all.

No, Pansy could not fault him for his work as Assistant Minister.

She stepped up to the desk and flashed a coy smile. "We're making a habit of meeting like this."

Percy scowled at the file in his hands. "You're making the habit, Ms. Parkinson. And as I do not have the time, energy, or interest in ascertaining why you're making it a habit, I ask that you spit it out and stop wasting my time." He sat down at his desk and began paging through the file.

Pansy placed her hands on the desk and leaned down. Her loose blouse gaped, offering an enticing view of her cleavage. "I'd never waste your time, Assistant."

Percy glanced up, no doubt about to say something bland and boring, and was caught off-guard by the display of cleavage. He frowned a little and his lips pursed, like her breasts were a particularly puzzling budgeting problem he needed to solve.

That was not a reaction Pansy was used to getting. Her cleavage once caused a Seeker to fall straight off his broom mid-game. During the qualifying games for the World Cup, no less.

Percy sat back, pulled his glasses off, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "State your piece, and then leave."

"The Order is planning on striking Hogsmeade."

"I'd heard," Percy said shortly. He placed his glasses carefully on the desk and glanced at her, eyes not entirely on her face, but also not on her cleavage. "I do get the updates from the Civis Arma." He made a flicking motion with his fingers, brushing her off.

No, she wasn't going to be able to seduce him. How irritating. That was usually the fastest way to a man's weaknesses. And she would find Percy's weakness. She would find the crack in his armor, slip into his psyche, and find all the faults he kept buried deep within. And then she would reveal them to the world, thereby ensuring his ruin.

Because he had killed Charlie.

"There are several key members opposed to the strike," she revealed. "They think it's too soon after the battle at the Ministry."

Percy paused a moment. He fiddled with a black leather portfolio on his desk, latching and unlatching the silver clasp. It was a tell. He was interested.

"Who's opposed?"

"I gave you that piece for free," said Pansy. "Anything more might cost you. Say a drink? Dinner?"

Percy sat back in his chair. "Why are you asking me to dinner, Ms. Parkinson? What could you possibly gain from speaking with me?"

His voice, for a moment, took Pansy off-guard. It was a weary voice. A strained voice. A voice that said he was not interested in her little games, and Pansy… Pansy felt a flash of anger. She was used to sparking interest. She made it her job to make men interested in her. Even Charlie –

She broke away from that train of thought because it hurt. But she knew that the only way to make it stop hurting was follow the thought to its conclusion. So she finished the thought: Even Charlie had been interested in her.

Charlie had been interested in her for different reasons of course, not just her carefully maintained beauty. But here was this man, this bookish, boring, sniveling coward of a man, who had gotten Charlie killed, and he wasn't paying her any attention.

She bit back her anger, but she must have paused too long, because Percy looked up. He had blue eyes, like half of his family, but his appeared duller, less focused, less sharp. Somewhat vacant even. But he frowned at her, his eyebrows knit, and suddenly his gaze sharpened. For a moment, Pansy wondered if he was looking right through her.

"Ms. Parkinson," he said, and now his voice was taking on a gentler tone, "if there's something wrong…,"

"Forget it," said Pansy with a shrug and a laugh. She felt oddly uncomfortable at that look. She wanted to get away. "Can't blame a girl for trying, can you? Just thought you might fancy a date or a shag. It's the end of the world out there, you know."

She picked up his glasses and slid them back on his face. He blinked at her, first at her cleavage, because once again she was bending over the desk, and then he blinked up at her face. And suddenly his expression cleared, like he had solved that budgeting problem from before.

"You're in trouble," he said. "That's why you're talking to me."

Pansy paused for a moment, taken by surprise. Not because he was right, but because he was _so far_ from the truth. He took her pause as confirmation.

"Who's giving you trouble?" he asked, leaning forward.

Pansy suddenly realized that this was how she got to Percy Weasley. Not through the typical seduction, but by playing the damsel in distress. And she could play that role.

She pulled back quickly, and gave a too-forceful laugh. "Trouble? Why would you say that?" She made a show of glancing at the clock. "Oh, is that the time? I hadn't realized it was so late. I have…," she cast around, pretending that she couldn't think of an excuse, and finished with a hurried, "I have to go."

She left the office, toning down the natural sway in her hips to make it look like she was in a hurry. She ducked her head and hid a little smile. She had him. Now his interest was piqued. She'd take a couple of days off, stay away from the Ministry, and let him obsess over her on his own.

She was always good with foreplay.

oOoOoOoOo

Draco woke up early the next day. Ginny was still lying beside him, and he took a moment to study her face. She had a pretty face. No, a beautiful face. And he was pretty sure she had most of the constellations scattered in the freckles on her nose and cheeks.

If he'd memorized those freckles before, he couldn't recall doing it.

Draco sighed, silently, and then stretched a little. A fancy clock on the bedside table told him it was morning, so he rolled to get off the bed. He actually had to roll several times because it was that large. It was frivolous. No one needed a bed that big. Although… it had been really nice to sleep on. Maybe there was something to be said for having their Headquarters in a veritable mansion.

The shower was similarly large and decadent. Draco washed up under a shower faucet that had twenty different settings, and thought maybe he could get used to all of this luxury. And then he dried himself off on the largest and softest towel he'd ever held, and decided that yes, he liked this Headquarters.

There were even clothes waiting for him on a small bureau in the bathroom, like they had appeared by magic.

Which they had.

Draco picked them up. They were weird clothes. Very formal. The trousers were black and had the faintest of pinstripes. The shirt was pale blue and actually had embroidery around the cuffs and collar. He put them down in distaste. He pulled on the underwear though. At least that was familiar – something similar to boxer-briefs. And perhaps made out of silk?

He stepped out of the bathroom, toweling off his hair as he did, intent on hunting down different clothes. He was greeted by a wolf whistle from the bed. He looked over. Ginny was propped up on her elbows, giving him a decided once over.

He flushed. He knew he did. There was no helping it with skin his pale. She laughed at him. He tossed his towel at her, and then started rummaging through the wardrobe for a pair of jeans.

"Your tattoo isn't moving," Ginny said.

Draco paused in his hunt. His tattoo. The one on his back, the trees and the sword and the snake, the one that was also oddly struck through with old scar tissue in an X formation.

He turned around. "Should it move?"

She nodded. "Very slightly. It's an heirloom mark, a signum. It's magic."

"And the scars?"

"You were disinherited for a while," said Ginny.

"Huh," said Draco, and he started his rummage again.

She came up beside him, and touched his shoulder. He looked down. There was a spider web of scars on his right shoulder. "These are new. Do you remember what happened?"

He shook his head. "What about this one?" He held out his left arm.

She winced a little, and ran her finger lightly over the vaguely snake-shaped scar that was visible on both sides of his arm. "Voldemort ran a knife through your arm. The knife blade was heated, which is why the scarring is so severe."

Draco gaped a little, because that was vicious sounding, and his hand clenched over the scar on reflex.

"You have a habit of making him angry," she said.

"Maybe I should get a different hobby."

She laughed a little and then strolled into the bathroom. "I'll meet you in the dining room for breakfast."

Draco nodded and went back for his search of casual clothing. He found a pair of white trousers made out of stiff cotton that appeared to be the closest to jeans he would find, and pulled them on. A short sleeved gray shirt followed that – far too soft to be anything but some kind of magical cloth. He didn't bother with shoes – not when he remembered the entire walk down was full of plush carpet. He did run a quick hand through his fast drying hair to get it to settle in place, and then walked down to what Bill had pointed out as the informal dining room.

There were people gathered already, and it looked he was one of the last to arrive. Fred and George had pushed their plates away and were sketching out something on a piece of newspaper. Bill was chatting with Fleur, both of them just had coffee cups in front of them. Harry and Hermione were still eating, so Draco snagged the seat next to them.

"Morning," he said to Hermione.

"Good morning," she said back. She handed him a plate from the stack in the center of the table. There were several dishes of breakfast foods. Eggs, sausage, ham, toast and jam, and some type of porridge. Draco stuck with the eggs and toast. There were a few newspapers as well, so Draco snagged one to read as he ate.

He didn't get past the first page.

"Moving pictures," he said in awe. He leaned in close and squinted at it. "Granted, it's not much different than a gif, but it's on paper. How does that work?" He looked over at Hermione and Harry. "Is it the paper that's magic? Or the photo itself?"

Harry looked a little startled. "You know, it never really occurred to me."

"Both," said Hermione. "The paper is charmed to be able to contain the magic, but it's actually a photographic spell that provides the image itself."

"Huh," said Draco. He took a long sip of coffee, and then tried to make sense of the headlines. Someone named Kingsley – who was the Minister, he remembered – was meeting with organizers of neighborhood watches to keep communities safe. Below the front article was a smaller piece about the Minister's Assistant ,Percy Weasley, who was successful in getting more French aid.

"Weasley," said Draco. "How many of them are there?"

"Ah, they don't talk much about that brother," said Hermione.

Draco frowned. He remembered something Bill had said, about Percy no longer being home. "What happened?"

She hesitated, then said in a low voice. "About a year ago, the Ministry fell. During the attack, Charlie Weasley was killed. Instead of attending his funeral, Percy publicly accepted an award for heroism."

Draco frowned a little. "That's it? I mean, it's a dick move, to be sure, but is it worth disowning someone over?"

Hermione glanced around, like she was afraid someone would walk in, and then said in an even lower voice, "Percy was one of the few people who could initiate the self-destruct in the Ministry in case of a Death Eater attack. But he didn't. Not until hundreds of people died in the ensuing battle, including Charlie. He didn't hit the self-destruct until he was safe. And… well, that's what they're mad about. Charlie was at the Ministry, trying to save Percy, and Percy sacrificed hundreds of lives to get himself safe before destroying the Ministry building."

Draco absorbed that information, and then extrapolated from it. "So, the Weasley family is upset because one son didn't kill himself quick enough to save hundreds of lives and save the other son, who was trying to save the first son to begin with." He gave her a look to show he wasn't impressed with that reasoning.

"It's not like that," Hermione said.

"Do they even know what caused him to delay the self-destruct?" Draco asked. "Or why those other people didn't bring down the Ministry when they had the chance?"

"Percy's always been selfish," Hermione said. "And he started the rift between himself and his family. He disowned them first."

"I might too, if they made a habit of assuming the worst about me," said Draco.

Hermione gave a little huff of air. "Well, you're just the same," she pronounced.

Draco had a feeling he shouldn't take it as a compliment. He felt inclined to do so, though.

"You and Percy get along," said Harry, speaking up from the other side of Hermione.

Draco looked over at him. Harry shrugged. "You talked with Percy on occasion. You didn't know each other long, but you probably would have been friends if you did. You think similarly, more practical than emotional, which is good and useful, but you both can… alienate people without really meaning to."

That seemed like a very fair and reasonable explanation. And some very useful insights. Draco gave him a smile and a nod of thanks. Harry seemed a little startled, but he smiled back as well.

Draco turned back to the paper and saw that he'd rated a side column. There was a blurry picture of him from outside the Leaky Cauldron that stated, 'The Return of the Malfoy Heir?'

So he was important enough to rate his own news article? Weird. And what was he heir of?

His musings were interrupted by Ginny. She slid into the seat next to him, kissed him on the cheek, and then stole a piece of his toast.

Draco paused for a moment, because that felt… not familiar. But it felt good. So he kissed her back.

He couldn't help but notice the silence that followed. He looked around the table and figured it was probably a little weird for the Weasley boys, seeing their little sister kissing someone at the breakfast table.

"That's not really Draco, Gin-gin," said one of the twins.

"Call me that again and I will bat-bogey the hell out of you," Ginny said in a faux-pleasant tone of voice. "And it is Draco. Just… lacking certain personality quirks."

"And lacking a great deal of knowledge as well," said Severus, striding into the room. "We really should see about rectifying that situation as soon as possible. Is everyone here?"

Everyone was not here, apparently. Draco didn't know quite who else they were waiting for, but Bill got up to ring a bell on the mantle of the fireplace. Severus glowered while they waited, and Draco finished his breakfast. Everyone else turned out to be Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Blaise, Sirius, Ron, and last to arrive, Pansy, who sauntered in still dressed for the night before in a sparkling black slip of a dress and heavy make-up.

"Don't mind me," she said, waving off everyone's attention with an attractive flutter of her hands. Blaise pushed a cup of tea in her direction. He was rewarded with a bedroom sort of smile that he only rolled his eyes at.

"We should begin with a list of places to look for Draco's memories," Bill said, spearheading the conversation.

Draco tightened his fingers around his cup of coffee, still not liking the fact that his memories were somewhere outside of his head.

"Here is the most likely place to search," said Severus.

"How long is that going to take?" Draco asked, thinking of the size of the Headquarters. And then, "how big are memories? Are we talking an actual physical object, or more of an essence?"

"Essence," Hermione provided. "Usually strand or liquid form. The vessel could be no bigger than a shoe box."

Draco tried to incorporate 'strand' and 'liquid' into his concept of memories.

"His memories could still be in his head as well," Ginny said. "Draco's signum is frozen. He probably did that before leaving – when he signed his estate first to Bill and then to me for temporary custody. If we re-activate his signum, maybe that would unlock something."

Bill nodded. "Okay. We'll contact the law offices about the signum, and we'll start searching here in the meantime. Where else?"

"His place in France," said Harry.

"I have a place in France?" Draco asked.

Bill nodded again. "It'll take us a while to get the visa request through, seeing as the borders have been tightened, but we'll see if Kingsley can expedite it. Anyone else think of a place to check?"

"Gringotts," Ron offered.

"What's that?" Draco asked.

"Wizarding bank," Harry supplied. "It's guarded by goblins and dragons, but it's been attacked a few times. I don't think you'd put anything important there."

"Not unless he wanted to fool anyone else looking for his memories," said Pansy.

Draco looked over at her. As did the rest of the table.

She shrugged a shoulder, and the thin strap of her dress slid down, dangerously low. Blaise pushed it back up for her.

"If Draco wiped his memories, it's because they're important," Pansy said. "Well, what if the people he was hiding his memories from realized he had taken out his memories? They would know that he hid them somewhere, so in hiding them, Draco might have put them someplace he wouldn't expect anyone to look. Like in plain sight. Or at the bank."

It was a twisted sort of a logic that actually made sense.

"Draco does have new scars," Ginny said. "He could have been captured or attacked while he was away, and if he was, it stands to reason that the Death Eaters could know that his memories are gone."

"So then we need to look somewhere obvious, like Gringotts," said Ron.

Bill added it to the list he was writing. "Where else would Draco definitely not hide his memories?"

"Hogwarts," said Harry.

"I thought that taken over," said Draco.

"It's abandoned now," said Severus. "Dumbledore activated most of the wards before it fell, so now it's mostly dead."

"How can a building be dead?" Draco asked, but Severus waved him off. "Put Hogwarts as one of the last options. It will be difficult to get to and search through, and we shouldn't spare the time or energy unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Agreed," said Bill. "Any other suggestions?"

There was silence. A great deal of it. Draco finally asked the question he'd been wondering since he'd arrived. "Do I have any family? Would I have left it with someone I trusted?"

He immediately knew he had said something wrong because the whole table froze. Draco tried to guess what the reason was by the look on their faces, but none of the expressions were easy to read. If they had just looked at him pityingly, he would have known that his family was dead, but these expressions were far more complex. There was hesitation, disgust, pity, frustration, and anger.

Pansy broke the silence. "Draco, darling, we in the Pureblood society don't always have families we trust. More like families that will stab you in the back at the slightest opportunity."

"So I have family," said Draco.

"Sure," said Sirius. "You've got a sister in law and a niece. They're great."

The table laughed. Draco wasn't in on the joke until Ginny leaned in to tell him that Sirius was dating his sister-in-law.

"Long distance," Sirius said. "They're in the States. But before you ask, you wouldn't have left your memories with them. Far too dangerous for them."

"So they're my only family?" Draco asked. "What about my parents?"

"Your mother is…," Bill started, and then trailed off. "Well, that's a complicated situation. Your father is…," and then he stopped, obvious frustration on his face.

"Either they're alive or dead," said Draco. "And either they're good or bad. It's not that complicated."

"Your mom's alive, but she's bad," Ron piped up. He was scolded by half of the table, but he shrugged it off. "It's the truth. And your dad… well, he's sort of inbetween both of those things."

Draco opened his mouth, wanting to ask how someone could be 'inbetween' life and death, but Severus interrupted him.

"That's a story better served for a different day. Suffice it to say, no, you would not have left your memories in the care of anyone not already at this table."

His tone offered a sense of finality that had Draco immediately rebelling against it. How was Severus to know that he hadn't had friends or family members that he trusted? In fact, how were any of these people privy to his relationships with his parents? Draco refused to believe it was as simple as they were making it out to be, but he kept his mouth shut. He had a feeling he'd have to be clever about learning about his parents. And he could be clever.

"So, any last things to add to the list?" Bill asked.

There was silence again. Draco looked around the table. He didn't know if there weren't many places to look for his memories, or if no one knew him well to offer any other suggestions.

"Do I have a house here in England?" he asked.

There was a dumbfounded pause. And then everyone looked his way, mirror expressions of bafflement on their faces.

"I mean, shouldn't that be the first place to look?" Draco asked.

There was one more beat of silence, and then laughter. Peals of laughter.

The Weasley twins fell out of their chairs they were laughing so hard. Sirius threw back his head and guffawed. Ron and Blaise both slapped the table in their mirth. Pansy hurriedly hid her face in her hands, and when Draco looked over, Ginny was wiping tears from her eyes.

Draco thought the laughter would die down, but then the members looked at each other, and laughed even harder, sharing the same joke.

The only one who wasn't laughing was Bill. Draco heaved a sigh, looked his way, and raised his eyebrows, wondering in wordless curiosity what he had just said.

Bill looked thoroughly thunderstruck. "How did you not know?"

"Know what?" Draco challenged.

"I told you when we arrived," Bill said.

"Told me _what_?"

"I said, 'Welcome home'."

"You said we were at Headquarters," Draco corrected.

Bill shook his head. "I said ' _Welcome home'_. Draco, this," he gestured out around him, "is your house."

Draco frowned at Bill. And then he looked around the room. The wallpaper was ornate ivory and gold. The dining table and chairs were deep black wood, intricately carved, and obviously antique. Maybe even hand carved. The fireplace was marble. There was a pair of vases on the mantel that appeared to be silver and encrusted with precious stones. There were two very large, very expensive looking oil paintings, both landscapes, hanging on the walls. The frames were gold.

Beyond this room, there were hundreds of rooms, most of them boasting even finer decorations and furnishings.

Draco looked back at Bill. His mind refused to accept what Bill had said as truth. He must have misheard. Or misunderstood. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"He said this is your house, mate," one of the twins said.

"You're a veritable prince, Malfoy," said the other.

They appeared to be telling the truth. At least, Draco could see no obvious signs of falsehood in their faces. He looked to the other members at the table. Most of them had stopped laughing. Several of them were nodding at him.

Draco turned back to Bill. "That's just absurd," he said. "What does one do with a house this big? Are there sightseeing tours that run? Is it a bed and breakfast during the summer?"

There was more laughter. The twins cackled even louder. Draco didn't think it was that funny.

"Merde, the upkeep on this thing must be astronomical," he said. "Not to mention the property taxes. How is this place even sustainable?"

He looked around the table, wanting to demand answers from those gathered. His mind was whirling with the responsibilities that came with owning a home this big. The cleaning. The staff he must employ. The taxes and daily expenses. The grounds. The insurance.

Something like panic seized his lungs and squeezed. He tried to take in a breath, couldn't quite manage it, and thought, for a split second, that he was going to pass out.

And then his body shut down and his mind kicked in. A wash of cold logic swept away the hot fear.

"Right," he said, voice coming out clipped. "I'm going to need to see some expense reports. And the tax logs. Does anyone have a ballpark figure of what my gross annual income is, because I'm calculating the upkeep on this place to be in the millions – and that's in American dollars, and not in whatever strange currency magic works in."

"If we could focus on the matter at hand," Severus said, voice disapproving, but Draco stood up.

"I'd apologize, but I just learned that my overall financial worth has to be bigger than that of a small country, so I'm assuming I can afford any offense I'm about to give. I'm going to call whoever my lawyer is and get a hang of…," he swept out a hand, "all of this. And then we can talk about my memories."

Severus bristled. "I hardly think that's the most productive use of our time."

"His memories could be with his lawyer," said Blaise. "Especially if his first instinct is to figure out his finances."

Draco looked around the table. There were several nods.

"I'll go with him," said Ginny. "We can see about getting his signum re-activated as well, and maybe kill two birds with one stone."

"Very well," said Severus, sounding a little displeased, but that was fine. Draco had bigger things to worry about than upsetting people.

Like, if his house cost millions of dollars in upkeep, then he must have some sort of employment. Or investments. And if they weren't handled correctly, then most likely a lot of people would feel the effects of it.

Ginny took his hand and tugged him out of the room. "Everything's been kept for you," she said. "I should have figured one of the first things you'd want to do is check over your books."

"Does that make me a terrible person?" Draco wondered out loud.

"No, just particular," said Ginny.

Draco looked around at the hall they were walking through. A very expensive hall.

"Does all of this make me a terrible person?" he asked.

"No," said Ginny again. "Still just particular."

"Small mercies then," said Draco. "I could have turned out to be a real bastard, huh?"

Her peals of laughter said that he might still be a bit of a bastard.

oOoOoOoOo

The letter came. It had taken longer than expected, but it was here now.

Pansy had to let a breath out before daring to pick the letter up.

The writing on the front was plain. Percy Weasley wrote practically, without any sense of flair or character.

Charlie's handwriting –

Pansy took a breath and forced herself to continue the thought.

Charlie's handwriting had been slanted and heavy. He didn't like to write. He preferred dictating quills, and so when he did put quill to parchment, his writing was fast and hurried.

This script was basic. Plain. All letters perfectly uniform, like Percy had learned to write by emulating a typewriter.

Pansy opened the letter. It, like the calligraphy, was short and to the point.

 _Ms. Parkinson –_

 _My Floo address is 'the Eaves'._

 _I will expect your arrival at 8pm._

 _Percy_

Pansy glanced at the clock. It was only 10am. Plenty of time to prepare.

oOoOoOoOoO

See - I told you Pansy and Percy were getting complicated. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please leave a review. Thanks!


	6. Surprise Attack

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. But you already knew that...

Author's Note: Well. This is late. I've no one to blame but myself and poor time management. I will really, really try to get the next chapter out in a week. Thanks for being patient!

 **OoOoOoOo**

 **Three months ago…**

Something flickered out of the corner of his eye. Percy glanced over, but saw nothing unusual. Well… that wasn't quite true. Seeing the full Wizengamot Court packed into the Aurors' ramshackle lecture hall was still unusual, despite the fact they'd been having the weekly meetings here for a full four months. Percy just didn't think he'd get used to the juxtaposition of dignified wizards and witches crammed into shabby lecture chairs.

He turned back to the meeting at hand, wondering if he was getting an over-sensitive startle reflex. He wouldn't be the first. The attack on the Ministry, and the loss of life and the destruction of the building, had made everyone slightly paranoid. There were full time counselors at the make-shift Ministry now, and several more who volunteered their time for free sessions on the weekends or after work hours. The counselors were part-healers and part-aura readers. It was their job to seek out anyone who appeared to be overly stressed or frightened and do what they could to ease the emotional trauma.

Of course, the first thing Percy had learned to do, after developing his own ability to read auras, was to learn to mask his own.

He pulled his mind from that direction of thought. No need to travel down that memory path right now. Not when the Minister of Finances was advocating for the selling of war bonds. It was an interesting concept, one that the wizarding world had never implemented before. The Minister of Finances was describing how it had been a rousing success in the Muggle world.

Most of the Wizengamot, and most of the cabinet, looked unconvinced. And that was because the Minister of Finances was using the Muggle world as an example. It was a rookie mistake. And it really was too bad he had made it, because war bonds would actually help off-set a lot of the expenses that were currently racking up.

War was expensive. More and more Aurors were being hired, and more and more Aurors were being killed and injured. The Civis Arma was a volunteer group, but they also had expenses that the Ministry was covering. Combat training, combat healing, combat gear, etc.

And that was to say nothing for the damage that followed an attack. Buildings collapsed. Business went under. Bridges were burnt. Civilians needed rescuing. Homes and possessions were lost, people displaced. Refugee centers needed staffing and funding and resources. People needed food and clothes and shelter. Insurance companies didn't want to pay out claims for fear they'd go bankrupt. Stores weren't producing as much as usual. People weren't buying as much as usual. The economy was circling the drain.

Percy had gotten a sizable pledge from France – thank Merlin for their neighbors next door. He would probably go to America next to see what help he could drum up, but they couldn't keep asking for handouts. They needed a revenue source. War bonds could offer that revenue.

Something flashed in his vision again. He glanced over. Still nothing. He frowned a little, trying to figure out if anyone was wearing anything that was catching the light. Last week one of the staffers had gotten engaged and spent the day trying to get her ring to bounce light into everyone's eyes, just to show off the diamond.

He saw nothing.

The Minister of Finances finished his pitch. There was an uncomfortable silence. Percy turned in his seat, trying to gauge the interest of the court. Blank stares, frowns, and some eyes closed, sleeping. Not good.

The Minister of Finances awkwardly stood in the middle of the floor. This was his first presentation, and he was too green to realize that now he was supposed to ask for someone to second his motion. But that, actually, Percy could work to the country's favor. Percy glanced at Kingsley, who was seated next to Judge Whitcomb in the front of the room, facing the court. Percy raised his eyebrows at the Minister, and Kingsley gave a slight nod.

It was typically Judge Whitcomb's duty to oversee these meetings – to call anyone disruptive into order, and to prompt the presenter to ask for a second. But it was Percy's job to help Kingsley run the Minister, and right now, they were ten minutes past their scheduled break.

So Percy got up and strode to the front of the room. "As it's already past break time, we'll suspend the motion to second until our return. We will reconvene in fifteen minutes."

There were several sighs of relief and an immediate scrape of chairs and rustle of robes as the court members tried to diplomatically outrace one another for the small break room.

And it was a small break room, far too small to comfortably accommodate the large number of court members, and they would all want a cup of tea. The fifteen minute break would last thirty, which would hopefully be enough for the Minister of Finances to save his motion.

Percy snagged the young minister before he could join the throng leaving the lecture hall. "Mr. Gregory, a word."

Everett Gregory obediently followed him towards a quieter corner of the room. Everett was the replacement of the original Minister of Finance who turned out to be a Death Eater sympathizer. As such, he looked a little nervous at Percy's attention.

"Assistant Minister," he said, clutching at the stack of papers he was holding. "Is there something the matter?"

"Something is always the matter," said Percy. "That's the nature of working in politics. The current trouble at hand is the matter of war bonds. We need them."

Gregory looked surprised. "Well, yes."

"And yet, when you ask for a second to your motion, you will not find one. Do you know why?"

Gregory paused, and looked a little uncertain. "Because they don't agree with me?"

"Because you did not present the matter with the appropriate facts. You are speaking to a group of people who are nearly all from wizarding families. Only about five percent are Muggle-born. Yet you used all Muggle examples to defend your idea."

Gregory bristled a little. "Now, wait just a minute-,"

Percy held up a hand, forestalling him. "Listen without arguing, Mr. Gregory. I am not casting aspersions, nor am I insulting anyone. And to be completely honest, if you're getting riled up already, when I have only quoted statistics, then you're not going to last long in this business. And that would be a shame, because I think you are exactly what this country needs right now."

Gregory shut his mouth. He blinked a little, took in a breath, and then released it. "Thank you, Assistant Minister."

Percy nodded in approval. "Were this a peaceful time, Mr. Gregory, the court may have taken a chance on something so far outside their comfort zone. But this is war time, and as such, the court is playing it safe. What you need to do is find some precedent for your war bonds that occurred in wizarding history. Give the court a wizarding example, and then they will listen to you. Understand?"

Gregory nodded. "I understand. But you said we're voting as soon as we reconvene."

"I'll be able to give you a quick ten minutes before the Minister of Safety presents, so make your pitch short and sweet. If you need some help, go down to the legal department, and let them know that I sent you. They've studied finance law, and should be able to help you locate a good example."

Gregory nodded again, eagerly. "I'll get right on it. Thank you, sir!"

He hurried off, cutting through the throng of Wizengamot members still trying to get out of the doors. Percy caught Kingsley's gaze. The Minister was currently in conversation with several foreign ambassadors. Percy gave a nod. Mission accomplished.

Something flashed in his vision again, and Percy turned, irritated, and then realized that there was nothing flashing _in_ his vision. Rather, his vision was flashing.

He was coming down with a migraine.

'Of all the worst possible times,' Percy though with an inward groan, but then had to correct his thinking. Actually, now that the war bond crisis was solved, Percy could miss the rest of the meeting and catch up on the minutes at a later time.

He stopped by Judge Whitcomb, who was still sitting at his desk in the front of the room. He appeared to be napping, feet propped up and eyes closed. Percy knew he was awake.

"Mr. Gregory will get another ten minutes when the Wizengamot returns," he told the Judge.

Whitcomb opened his eyes. "You know the Minister of Safety will protest."

"The Minister of Foreign Affairs went over time. We just want to be fair," said Percy.

Whitcomb smiled. "Ten minutes after you talked to him. No doubt he'll use that ten minutes to make his case for war bonds using a more historically relevant example, and the Wizengamot will actually realize what a grand idea it is, and pass the motion. When will you run this country outright, instead of hiding the shadows?"

"I'm hardly running the country, Your Honor."

Whitcomb snorted. "Just like you didn't get Tierney overthrown?"

The lights flashed in his vision again. Percy frowned. "Really, Your Honor-,"

"You know that the most obvious tell is?" Whitcomb asked.

Percy raised an eyebrow at the judge.

"You're wasting away, that's the tell. No one looks like you unless they're working themselves to death."

"Ten minutes to Mr. Gregory," said Percy. "And to prove it to you that I'm not working myself to death, I am going to take a second lunch break."

He gave the judge a nod and turned on his heel.

"Don't think I didn't see you skip lunch earlier today!" Whitcomb called after him, drawing the attention of several minor officials still in the room.

It was something his mother would say. If his mother was still talking to him.

Percy stopped by Kingsley before leaving. The Minister held up a hand, pausing the ambassadors, and turning to Percy.

"I'm taking lunch," Percy informed him.

"And Gregory?"

"He'll get ten minutes before the war bonds are put to a vote. He's down in legal now, learning how to pander to the traditionalists who get scared of anything Muggle."

"Good work," said Kingsley. "Now go eat something. You look pale."

That was also something his mother would say. Sometimes Percy wondered how very obvious it was that he'd practically been disinherited from his family. And why everyone felt the need to make up for it.

"Natural state for gingers," Percy reminded him. He gave a quick nod to the ambassadors, and then slipped out of the room.

The meeting would take another two hours. Enough time for strong medications and a nap.

He kept the vials of pain reliever in his desk drawer, so he quickly skirted the press of officials and court members, took the stairs up to the top floor, and unlocked the door to the Minister's office. The doors were only ever closed when Kingsley was away.

Percy didn't bother to close them now. He'd be going home in a few minutes to nap more comfortably there. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk, snagged one of the vials of bright yellow liquid, and quickly downed the contents. More lights flashed in his vision, so he gingerly took a seat and waited. He was cautiously optimistic. He'd gotten the potion before the pain had started – it meant he might skip the throbbing headache completely.

"That particular kind of pain reliever is restricted," came a feminine voice.

Percy silently cursed himself for not shutting the door behind him. He looked up at Pansy Parkinson. She smiled at him.

"We're making a habit of meeting this way," she purred, and she did shut the door behind her, and then she slunk forward, hips swaying.

" _You_ are making a habit of it, Ms. Parkinson," Percy corrected. For the past six months she'd been intruding on any moment of privacy he had. She was always impeccably made-up, and scandalously attired, and never said what she wanted from him.

He didn't know why she sought to hound his every step. He didn't know what she was – other than a serial seductress. He was sure there must be something else, something beyond her beauty, because Charlie wouldn't have fallen for her if there was nothing else. Charlie had always been the most emotionally intelligent of the Weasleys.

Percy tucked the empty vial back in the drawer. "Can I help you, Ms. Parkinson?"

She shrugged a shoulder and stepped up to the desk. She trailed a finger along the edge. Her nails were deep red, and slightly pointed. Percy knew it was supposed to be a sexy look, but he always found it rather evil-looking. "Maybe."

Percy couldn't help the exasperated sigh that left his mouth. More lights flickered in his vision, so he dropped his head into his hands and pressed against his temples. "Speak plainly, Ms. Parkinson."

There was silence. He risked a glance up.

"Migraine," she surmised. "And not an illegal pain-potion addiction."

She sounded almost disappointed.

"You sound upset that I'm not an addict," Percy said.

"Just trying to figure you out," said Pansy. "It'd make sense, really, if you did have a potion's addiction. The long hours at work, the stress, it all takes a toll."

"Potions don't help me do my job."

"No, but they'd make you human."

Percy couldn't help but laugh at that. "I get migraines from the stress, Ms. Parkinson. How much more human do you want me to be?"

She paused again. Percy watched something very vulnerable steal across her face. As soon as she saw him looking though, she pushed it away behind her usual flirtations. "Humans need company, too," she said, and leaned a little over the desk.

Percy stood up to get out of the line of sight. She had an annoying habit of letting him see down her shirt. "What do you need from me?"

She glanced his way, the seduction gone. "If I needed to… leave the country suddenly…,"

"There's a wait on traveling papers," Percy said. "To keep Death Eaters from escaping."

"Yes, I know," said Pansy. "But… if it were life and death, would there be a way to get the travel papers pushed through faster?" She perched on the desk and leaned over to place a hand on his. Percy froze for a moment. Her hand was warm. Her skin was soft.

She turned his hand over, palm up on the desk. Percy watched, somewhat curious, as she stroked her fingers down the center of his palm and down his fingers. It was a teasing sensation, both tingling and sensual. He looked up at Pansy. "Tell me why you're targeting me. There are other men to seduce that can get you what you want." He thought for a minute. "Sanderson, down in visas. He could push travel papers through. And he's a big flirt already – and half the secretarial staff swoons over him. Wouldn't that be easier, Ms. Parkinson? And more enjoyable for you?"

She pulled her hand back. Percy closed his hand into a fist, trying to get the sensation of her fingers off his skin, but the tingling sensation remained. He wondered if she'd used some kind of lotion.

"You're definitely a challenge," she said. "You remind me a little bit of Draco, really."

Percy raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be the first time someone compared me to a Malfoy. Although last time it was Lucius."

Unbidden, the memory came back. Fire and spells. Pain and fear.

Something throbbed in his head. He sat down and dug his fingers into his scalp, trying to push away the migraine.

"Who said Lucius?" Pansy asked, sounding curious.

Percy flicked his free hand at her, waving her curiosity off. "Doesn't matter. How about you tell me why you need travel papers, and why you're coming here to get it?"

"You're not Lucius," said Pansy. "And you're not Draco either. You're a Weasley with power. That's what I need."

Percy frowned. "But why?"

She only shook her head. "I'm saying too much as it is. Maybe I'll find Sanderson."

She hopped off the desk, having to pull down her skirt as she did to avoid flashing him. He still saw a glimpse of her underwear. Black lace.

It was so expected he couldn't help but laugh a little at the cliché. She turned, startled, and Percy waved her off again. And then he sat down and continued to rub at his temples because the migraine was setting in.

He had a sneaking suspicion that, as he'd taken the pain reliever, this headache was caused by Pansy Parkinson.

OoOoOoOoOo

 **Present Time…**

Draco shifted a little in the chair and rolled his shoulders back.

Ginny glanced at him from behind the stack of papers she was reading. "Does it hurt?"

Draco shook his head immediately. "No."

The signum didn't hurt. He'd been afraid it would. Sitting in the office, shirt off, someone pointing a wand at his back, he was afraid that it would burn or sting. But all he had felt was the sensation of a dried-over scab being pulled from his skin, and then…

Movement. Across his back. A faint flutter.

And then a buzzing in the back of his head.

And then a feeling of connection. Belonging.

It'd been explained to him that the signum connected him to his land, connected him to the spirit of generations of Malfoys before him. And he felt that connection. And it was…

"It feels weird," Draco decided on, going for flippant instead of introspective.

Ginny gave him a side-long look that said she wasn't impressed.

He shifted again. "It's… like I was connected with a part of me I didn't know I was missing. And… I feel like I belong. Like I'm home. Even though I don't remember it, I feel like I'm home."

Ginny put down the magazine she was reading. "I'm glad."

Draco rolled his shoulders again, and then gingerly sat back in the chair. He looked around him at the office lobby.

His lawyer, the one that would explain his wealth and possessions to him, was one of several offices that shared space in the quite-impressive building. It was four stories high, and the lobby was marble and glass and full of small gardens dotted about the area, making it look like a rather expensive green house, expect for the sitting areas and receptionist kiosk.

And the fireplaces along the far wall.

Traveling through _fireplaces_ , of all things.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco turned and looked up. A woman was paused on the open staircase. She was dressed in a severe sort of business robes. She gestured for him to follow.

He and Ginny followed her up the stairs to the second floor. They traversed down the wide hallway, past several other offices, to the end of the hall. She led them into the corner office, a grand collection of rooms decorated in shades of hunter green, deep burgundy, and lots of mahogany.

"Mr. Malfoy," said a middle-aged man, stepping forward, hand outstretched. This was Atticus Fletcher, his lawyer.

Draco shook his hand and gave a cold sort of smile. Ginny had said it'd be best to keep his memory loss a secret, and he'd been practicing cold and distant expressions all morning.

"Did you have a good holiday?" Fletcher asked.

"More of a work holiday," Draco said.

Fletcher nodded and motioned him into the back room. It appeared to be Fletcher's private office. There was a large desk, a collection of bookshelves, and two grand windows, currently covered with heavy tapestries.

Fletcher directed them to sit in the chairs in front of his desk. He then opened up a large ledger book.

"Not many changes have been made to your investments," he said. "Miss Weasley did pull out of some of the more risky investments. I believe she wanted slow, steady gains while you were away."

"I didn't want to blow through your whole fortune," Ginny told him. "I told Mr. Fletcher anything safe and certain, and to keep it that way until you came back."

"Same with the business ventures and land holdings," said Fletcher. "If you like, I'll walk you through stocks and investments first, and then move onto more physical holdings, business, land, and so forth."

Draco nodded. "Proceed."

He glanced over at Ginny, and she nodded once in approval of his acting.

Fletcher took his seat behind the desk, and then gestured to a few lines on the ledger book. "Here are the most recent stock returns in the past quarter. I can walk you through the full five years, if you'd like."

"A simple copy of the reports should suffice," said Draco absently.

There was a beat of silence. Draco looked up.

"All of the reports are duplicated in your own ledger book," said Fletcher. He frowned a little.

Draco inwardly cursed. Another thing he didn't know. But he kept his indifferent mask on. "I'd like a direct copy from your office." And he provided no reason, letting Fletcher make his own assumptions.

Fletcher did. "Our ledger books are resistant to nearly all modification spells."

"Yes," said Draco. "Nearly all."

Fletcher nodded. "As you wish."

There was a knock on the door. It opened and the receptionist stepped through. "Miss Weasley, there's a Floo call for you in the foyer. From Advocate Preston."

Ginny winced. "I did take today off."

"Go ahead," Draco told her.

"I'll be back in a few." Ginny followed the secretary out, and the door shut behind her. Draco turned back to the lawyer, and Fletcher walked him through the past quarter of stocks, investments and then his real estate holdings.

It only took a few minutes because everything was laid out cleanly, and precisely, but also cleverly. Draco was both pleased and relieved at the set up. Fletcher had just turned to the matter of business when the door opened again. The receptionist smiled apologetically.

"Mr. Fletcher. Agnes Jones is in the front room."

Fletcher sighed a little. "My apologies, Mr. Malfoy, but this matter does require immediate attention."

Draco waved him off. "No problem."

And he'd forgotten his acting right there. Fletcher gave him a startled look, but then continued out of the office. He shut the door behind him.

Draco waited for a moment, and then he started flipping through the ledger, not looking at the monetary information, but looking for more personal information. There was a page in the front of the letter that held some personal information. His date of birth. His citizenry. His parents.

Underneath Lucius' name were dates. Birth and death dates, but Draco remembered what Ron had said. That his father wasn't exactly dead. So had he faked his death? Or was he a ghost? Ghosts had to be real, right? Seeing as unicorns and werewolves and vampires were?

There was only a birth date underneath his mother's name. No place of residence or address. He pushed the ledger aside and flipped through the other books. There was more financial information, but nothing further about his mother.

It stood to reason though, that if she was still alive, she must be getting some money from the estate. He'd seen no obvious payments so far, but he'd be able to look more closely when he had his own copies. And he would find her.

He put the books back where he'd found them, and then turned to the door, wondering when his lawyer would return.

A muffled roar sounded, and an explosion rocked the outside of the building. The floor pitched under his feet, and he could hear the sharp crack and shatter of glass exploding.

Draco ran to the windows, and pulled the tapestries back. At first, all he saw was gray. For a split second, he thought that the windows were fake, but then saw that the gray was moving, billowing and rolling. It was smoke so thick that he couldn't see the sky.

A flash of orange crossed the pane, and then in quick succession, a streak of blue and red.

Magic.

A magical battle was taking place outside.

Draco pulled his own wand out. He needed to find Ginny. And then they needed to get out of here.

He turned towards the door just in time to see it burst open. Two dark-robed people ran in – and he immediately knew they weren't there for anything good. He lashed his wand out, the same way he had at the shop. "Ventas!"

The wind spell tossed the two figures backwards, but a third appeared in the doorway. This figure flicked his wand, and a shield of bright gold flashed. The wind spell was deflected, and then the figure yelled out, "Expelliarmus!"

It was a woman's voice, Draco realized, even as he instinctively ducked behind the desk. The spell hit the desk, and then so did a few other spells. The wood creaked and groaned, but held, and when there was a lull in the casting, Draco risked a glance over, and tried the 'Expelliarmus' spell himself.

The magic that left his wand was weak, much weaker than the woman's spell had been. It fizzled out halfway, and Draco had to duck behind the desk again as more curses were cast. His mind whirled. Why hadn't it worked?

The desk gave an alarming lurch against his back.

Wand position, Draco realized. That's what he had done wrong.

He jumped up, tried the spell again, and this time it work. One of the Death Eater's wands was flung out of his grasp. Draco cast it again, in the direction of the others, but then the woman yelled out, "Incarcerous!"

One minute Draco was standing. The next ropes were flying at him. Draco flinched back and threw up his free arm, trying to stop them, but the ropes had a mind of their own. They twined about his arms, jerking them back. They tightened around his hands, and his lost the grip on his wand. They twisted around his chest, and he lost his balance. He fell onto the plush carpet, trying to struggle, but the more he fought, the tighter they became, like a boa constrictor strangling its prey.

Draco forced himself to go limp, and then the ropes stilled. Draco was kicked over onto his back, his arms trapped awkwardly beneath him. He stared up at the Death Eater. The mask was removed, revealing a woman with pale skin, black eyes, and tangled black hair.

"Well, hello again."

Draco stared at the woman. She looked crazed, her lips stretched into a maniacal grin and her eyes sparkling with an unholy sort of glee.

"You don't recognize me," she said, her smile growing. "Just like before."

Draco stared. "Before?"

"You've wiped your memory again," said the woman. She bent down, grasped the neckline of his shirt, and yanked. The shirt tore. She pressed her wand against the scars on his shoulder. "That was me."

Draco immediately started to struggle again, but the bonds only tightened. His chest was constricted. The blood flow cut off from his hands. He forced himself still, even as her mouth smiled cruelly.

"You didn't know anything then either," she said. "And you managed to leave rather quickly. But you don't have an emergency portkey now, I'd expect."

She looked over her shoulder. "Are the anti-apparition wards down yet?"

Draco couldn't quite hear the response, but her face twisted. He assumed it was a no and let out a little breath of relief. He didn't want to go anywhere with her.

"Then make a portkey," she commanded the others. "We need to get him back to the Dark Lord." She turned back to him, reached out a hand, and patted his cheek in a parody of tenderness. "In the meantime, how about you tell your dear old aunt Bellatrix what you've been working on all this time?"

Draco stared in shock. This woman was his aunt?

She laughed, and patted his cheek again. "Come now, I'm family. You can tell me."

Draco shook his head. "I don't have any memories, you know that. I don't know anything."

She pointed her wand at his chest. "Crucio."

Pain.

There was so much pain, Draco was startled by it. He screamed as it rolled over his body and set his nerve endings on fire. His body jerked, as he tried to escape the curse, and the ropes around him tightened again. He could feel his wrist bones grind together, could feel his ribs compress until he couldn't bring any air into his lungs.

His scream died out, because he didn't have the breath to yell. He could only wheeze in gasps, and then the curse ended.

Draco went limp, his mind in shock. The ropes loosened. He heaved in desperate breaths of air.

"Really, Draco," said Bellatrix. "I know you know some things. Tell me what brought you back. What were you working on all those years? What do you have planned?"

Draco didn't have anything planned. And he wasn't entirely sure what the code did, but he knew that telling her about the Merlin code was a bad idea. He shook his head again. "I don't know."

She raised her wand again.

"No – wait!"

Draco's protests were caught off with her cold, "Crucio."

Another wave of fire rolled over him. Fire and lightning this time because his nerves were still raw, and he screamed again. His body jerked uncontrollably. The bonds tightened around him again until he couldn't feel his fingers. His breath was cut off. He couldn't even wheeze in air. His ribs groaned, and then he felt something snap in his chest. It was a stabbing pain on top of the fire-pain of the curse.

And then there was a flash of blue.

Bellatrix was tossed backwards, and the curse ended. The pain stopped, but it seemed to echo in his body. His limbs still twitched. He still couldn't breathe. His vision went spotty.

And then there were hands on him, roughly hauling him up, nails biting into his skin.

Bellatrix.

She screamed something, something at Draco couldn't quite make out. She was shooting evil colors of green at whoever was fighting her. Draco understood then that she was using him like a shield, and if she got the chance, she would take him and run.

He didn't want to go with her, so he snapped his head back. The back of his skull hit her in the face, enough for her grip to loosen. His legs sagged, and then she dropped him. He crumpled fully to the ground. There were more spells. He heard her scream again, and then she shattered the window and leapt out of it.

Ginny was suddenly beside him. She immediately spelled the ropes off of him, and he gasped in air so quickly he choked. She pulled him up to a sitting position while he gulped in air, his chest heaving and eyes stinging. No tears though.

"Are you okay?" Ginny asked.

Draco looked at her. Her eyes were wide, but determined. Her hair had fallen out of the twist she'd been wearing this morning. There was a shallow cut running along one cheek. Her clothes were a little soot-stained. She must have been near the explosion.

And yet her jaw was set. Her expression fearless. Draco fell a little bit more in love with her.

"Ginny, is he okay?"

That was Harry's voice, calling from beyond the remains of the desk. Draco struggled to get up, couldn't quite manage it at first, and then Ginny helped him up.

Draco saw Harry and Ron standing at the ready, wands drawn. They were wearing matching emerald jackets with a symbol on the shoulder, a bird rising from flames. A phoenix.

"You alright, Draco?" Harry asked.

Draco managed a smile. "Sure."

Ginny ducked down and retrieved his wand for him. Draco looked at it. "I really need to learn how to work this thing."

"That's probably a good idea," said Ginny.

"We need to get you to the lobby so you can Floo out," said Harry. "Death Eaters are mostly retreating, but there are a few stragglers."

Draco gripped his wand a little tighter, not quite feeling up to another battle. Harry turned to Ginny. "We'll do a protection detail."

Ginny nodded, and then suddenly they were on the move, and Draco was being guided into place by a firm, but gentle push from Ginny. And Draco realized that he was the one being protected.

Harry took the lead, clearing the way down the hall. Ron took the left side of Draco, and Ginny brought up the rear. The office hall was smoky, thanks to a blown out window that was letting the smoke from outside come in. Debris was scattered along the floor.

Harry made them pause anytime they walked past an office door. Most were empty, only one held a Death Eater still wanting to battle. Draco was pushed back by Ron, and then he and Harry took the Death Eater out while Ginny stood guard beside him.

Draco tried to see the battle himself, wanting to learn what spells were used, wanting to learn more about dueling, but Ginny kept him out of the line of fire, and by default, out of the line of sight.

They made it to the stairs where three wizards in bright red robes were gathered. Draco recognized two from the Order meeting, Rudy Costace and George Parrish. They were with a woman, quite stunning with a blonde bob. She was frowning a little bit.

"Oy, Potter," Rudy called, with a wave. "How's the hunting?"

"Really," said the woman, rolling her eyes.

"We're getting Draco down to the Floo," said Harry. "Looks like he was being targeted, so the sooner we can get him out of here, the sooner the rest will disappear."

Draco started a little. "Wait, what?"

"You're adorable, Malfoy," Rudy said.

"The lobby is cleared," said the woman. "We're heading up to sweep the rest of the building, if you care to join us."

"We'll get Draco situated first," said Harry.

The woman nodded. Despite her assurances, Harry still took the lead down the staircase. Draco stared out over the lobby at the carnage. Smoke was thicker here, as nearly all the glass panes had been shattered. The receptionist's kiosk was in shambles strewn across the floor, and nearly all the small gardens had been completely trampled. There were more red-robed wizards and witches gathered, and some in bright yellow robes that were tending to injured civilians.

Harry took them down to the fireplaces. "We'll help the Civis Arma clean up here," he told Ginny. "Should be back in an hour or two."

She nodded, and then retrieved Floo powder from the mantle over the fireplace, and tossed in a handful. "Malfoy Manor. South Parlor."

She gestured for Draco to step in first, and he did, using the Floo for the second time that day. He stepped out into a room in his house that he hadn't seen yet. Ginny had called it a parlor, but it looked more like an infirmary. There were several beds set up in a row with privacy curtains pushed back. There were two whole shelves of strangely colored liquids. There was a faint astringent scent to the room.

Ginny emerged behind him and then rang the bell on the mantle. Draco turned to her. She let out a heavy breath.

"Well," said Draco. "Not exactly how I pictured the day going."

oOoOoOoOoOo

Bill paged through the journal. He'd been forcing himself to take it page by page, but frustration was setting in now.

And just an hour ago, Strike Team One had been deployed.

Bill was assigned to Strike Team Two. When the alert was sounded during his shift, it was his job to condense all relevant information into a quick sixty second summary while the team was gearing up, and then continue to correspond with them through their deployment, taking in any additional information and sending it their way.

When they'd first developed the strike teams and assignments, it was hard not to jump up at every alert, and assist any team that was deployed, regardless of shift. In fact, Bill had run down for every alert for about the first month.

And then he had burnt himself out.

Now, years into the implementation of the strike teams, it was easier to compartmentalize. It was easier to ignore the alarms when it wasn't his team on shift, easier to ignore the stress and chaos. He didn't know if it was a good or a bad thing that he'd come so accustomed to the state of danger around him.

He pulled his mind from his wandering thoughts, and back onto the work at hand. The Merlin code was brilliant. It was second-to-none he'd ever encountered, and Draco had done a good job with the decryption key. And the grammar rules were well parsed out too. He just had no idea what this code did. Or why Draco had erased his memories.

Bill sighed. And then the medical alert bell sounded. Bill felt his stomach flip, the way it always did when the bell sounded. Someone had been injured. He knew it wasn't a bad sign that the emergency bell had rung here at the Manor though. Had it been a life threatening or severe injury, then the team would have gone to St. Mungo's. Still, he didn't like to think that anyone was injured. Especially as Ron was on Strike Team One. Bill didn't think his parents could handle another loss.

He absently copied down a rather beautiful hieroglyph that was the written word for water. He had no hope of actually pronouncing the language himself, but he could enjoy writing it.

The fireplace in his office flared. His mother's face appeared in the frame. "Bill, come down to the infirmary."

Bill started. "What – why?"

But his mother's face was already gone. Panic clenching at his heart, Bill abandoned the journal and ran for the south parlor.

His mother was tending to someone lying on the bed. Bill expected to see Ron's red-hair. Instead, it was white-blond. Draco.

"What happened?" Bill demanded, hurriedly crossing over to the bedside. Draco's shirt was off. There were lines of bruises cut across his chest and around his wrists.

Draco shot him a comforting smile – and Bill didn't think he'd get used to that. Draco's usual methods of assurance were eye-rolls, a sharp, "I'm fine", or a diatribe on why no one should be worried about him.

"Apparently I have a crazy aunt."

"Bellatrix?" Bill asked, shocked.

"They must have been tracking us," said Ginny. She came over, holding a gauze pad to her face.

"You okay?" Bill asked.

She removed the gauze to show him a shallow cut on her face. "Flying glass," she said. "They separated us at the lawyer's office. They faked a Floo call, so I left, and then they attacked. They were trying to get Draco alone."

"Wanted to take me to the Dark Lord," Draco confirmed, and then he winced as Molly dabbed potion on his ribs.

"How's he doing?" Bill asked her.

"Bruising consistent with an incarcerous spell," his mother said. "One cracked rib because of it. And some minor muscle damage from the Cruciatus."

"Shit," said Bill.

"Is that what it's called?" Draco asked. He dropped his head back onto his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. "I really need to learn more spells."

"Strike Team One arrived along with the Civis Arma," said Ginny. "They're finishing up now. No casualties on our side that I was aware of."

Bill let out a breath. "Okay. Good."

"I'm serious about learning spells," said Draco. "I'm not going out there again without being able to at least attempt to defend myself."

Bill looked at him. This incarnation of Draco wasn't good with hiding his emotions. Bill could read fear in his eyes. He nodded. "You're right. You should be able to protect yourself. We'll add it to the list. Find your memories, figure out this damn code, and help you learn dueling."

Spoken out loud, it sounded a bit overwhelming.

"I bet you pick it up rather fast," said Ginny.

Bill and Draco looked over at her. She shrugged. "A lot of it will be muscle memory, so I have a feeling you'll be a quick study."

She had a point. Bill nodded and then swiped his hands through his hair. "Okay. You recover, then we'll talk."

Another bell sounded. The Strike Team had returned back to the Manor. Bill let out another sigh. No more emergency bells. Everyone was okay for the time being.

His mother patted him on the shoulder. "I'm going to give Draco some sleep aid so his rib will heal up faster. Go get yourself something to eat."

Bill glanced at the clock. It was past lunchtime. He nodded and left, but detoured by his office, planning on taking the journal down to lunch with him. He opened his office door, stepped in, and the carpet squished underneath his feet.

Bill stepped back, startled. The entire carpet was sopping wet. What had happened?

A faint trickling sound came from the desk. In fact, Bill could make out a small stream of water trailing from the surface of the desk, but there was no overturned cup or pitcher, no source of water, especially not to soak the whole floor.

He stepped forward, shoes squishing through the sodden carpet, and then stared at the top of the desk. The water was coping from the notepad he had written on, more specifically, it was coming from the hieroglyphic he had copied down. The one for water.

He picked the notepad up, and the water continued to flow, as if emerging from the glyph itself.

Bill felt his mouth drop open. What sort of new magic was this?

OoOoOoOo

Well, these chapters are getting longer because I keep thinking of things to add, lol. This one is over 7,000 words. Which is crazy... I obviously have a problem. Please leave a review. And next chapter we will get a little bit of what Pansy has planned for Percy...


	7. Starting to Unravel the Mysteries

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Sometimes I wish I did.

Author's Note: I did not proof read this one as much as I usually do. Because I really wanted to get this up ASAP because I've been falling behind on my updating. Feel free to laugh at bad grammar or spelling mistakes, both out-loud and maybe in a review?

OoOoOoOoOo

 **One year ago…**

The battle at the Ministry was not going well.

Charlie ducked down behind a desk, narrowly escaping a barrage of curses. He threw a few shield charms over the desk, and then paused for a moment to catch his breath. Who would have thought that battling Death Eaters would be just as much of a work out as training dragons?

He glanced over to his left. Bill was behind another desk, bleeding a little from the arm, but it appeared to be a shallow wound. He glanced to his right. Harry and Ron were working in tandem, pushing back the Death Eaters in the doorway with well-placed hexes.

Charlie raised his arm to wipe sweat from his forehead. For one brief second, he wondered if he should have argued so passionately about helping the Civis Arma defend the Ministry. If he'd known there was a risk he'd be trapped in the Ministry's bullpen for the accountants, he would have hesitated. Offices, cubicles, and paperwork gave him hives.

Helen Adams peeked her head up from the back of the office, a smear of blood on her cheek. That was Fred's blood. She was patching him up from a rather vicious slashing hex. "I'm getting an emergency beacon!"

An emergency beacon meant an Auror was down and needed assistance. They'd been losing Aurors left and right because the Death Eaters were deliberately targeting the Aurors. It was clear that the Death Eaters intended to win the Ministry building. And if they controlled a building as powerful as the Ministry…

Charlie channeled the anger and frustration he felt into speed. He jumped up from behind the desk and sent out a flurry of nasty hexes that he usually reserved for out-of-control dragons. The Death Eaters fell back screaming.

"Where?" Charlie demanded.

"This floor!" Helen called. "Two rooms left."

Charlie glanced at Bill, and they both nodded.

"Cover us, Harry," Charlie called, and then he and Bill were fighting their way through the hole in the ranks that Charlie had just created.

It was a messy fight, made only messy by the fact that there were still civilians in the Ministry, defenseless civilians now that the Aurors were being taken out. It had been one of the reasons Charlie had advocated for the Order to help. Sending Strike Teams to the Ministry was no different than helping other civilians in office buildings.

Besides, their brother worked here.

Charlie wondered if he was the only one who remembered that Percy was still a Weasley. Percy was cursed with a strong sense of right and wrong, same as the rest of the family, and cursed with the same desire to help. He just had a different way of showing it.

When Percy was twelve, he was convinced he should get a job to help with the finances at home. He'd gone as far as to submit several resumes for accounting work by owl, arguing that as he was better at math than most adults, no one would be any wiser. And he desperately wanted new textbooks, not the hand-me-downs Bill and Charlie had already half-destroyed.

Bill and Charlie – if they had a want for something – had learned to nick it, or save up their paltry allowance, or do odd jobs here and there around the neighborhood. But they'd never really wanted as anything as expensive as new textbooks, and they had definitely never mentioned the lack of finances to their parents' faces. Not the way Percy did.

He'd told their father and mother that with the money he made from the job, he'd get his own textbooks, and there'd still be some leftover for the clothing budget. "We could all get new clothes and no one would think we're poor anymore," Charlie remembered him saying.

Their parents had been mortified. And defensive.

It was, perhaps, a little unfair to Percy that he was the third boy. Bill got all new clothes, and Charlie got his hand-me-downs. As Bill was largely responsible, and the clothes Charlie got were still in decent shape. Charlie was not so kind to the clothes, being a more active, outdoorsy type of boy, and so the clothes Percy did get were quite shabby.

Percy might have got new clothes, if the twins hadn't been born. Having two babies, when one was expected, was a financial drain on the family, especially as the twins seemed to get into a mess or break something every day.

That day, when his attempt at getting an accounting job was discovered, was not the first time he had brought up the lack of money to his parents, nor was it the last. Percy was a quieter type, preferring to read inside, and he was privy to a lot of conversations between the Weasley parents. It made sense that he would overhear the talk about finances and try to help.

Charlie just didn't know why Percy, who was usually so good at being diplomatic, didn't understand why all of his efforts to help with the finances were met with anger from their parents. Percy must know their parents often felt guilty they couldn't provide for their children the way they wanted to. He must understand that the guilt was why his parents were so defensive and angry when he brought it up. He must know that, on some level, he was painting a picture of himself of a son more interested in money than in family values.

Or maybe pushing the point, was Percy's way of being a Weasley. He wouldn't let that bone go until someone validated his point.

Whatever the reason, Percy was here now. Somewhere in the Ministry, and Charlie was going to keep fighting until he was safe, and until all the rest of the civilians were safe. And until the damned building self-destructed. It should have self-destructed half an hour ago. It was obvious that the Death Eaters were winning.

He and Bill fought their way to the office two doors down, and then ducked inside. Bill shut the door and pulled up several powerful wars. Charlie swept the room – it was in shambles – and spotted the Auror tucked behind a filing cabinet. He ran over – recognizing the face. Rudy Costace.

Charlie knew a few basic medical spells. He used them now to stop the bleeding from the Auror's shoulder, reduce some of the swelling on his face, and then finally rouse him into consciousness.

Rudy gasped a little, his eyes flickered, and then he latched onto Charlie's jacket.

"Get out of here, Percy."

Charlie blinked a little in surprise. "It's Charlie."

Rudy stared at him. His eyes seemed to focus a little better. "Where's Percy?"

"I haven't seen him," said Charlie.

"He's here?" Bill asked, coming over to join them.

"Self-destruct," said Rudy. "It's not going off. I was taking him down… the sixth floor. He should have… he should have hit it by now."

Charlie felt something cold clench in his stomach. He turned to Bill.

"Maybe he's laying low somewhere," said Bill.

Charlie couldn't quite tell if it was aiming for optimism, or if he genuinely thought Percy would hide when he had such an important job to do.

"We're going after him," Charlie said. "Get the others. We're going to find Percy."

oOoOoOoOo

Draco leaned in. The entire Order leaned in.

"Is it supposed to do that?" he asked, staring at the hieroglyphic Bill had written on the piece of paper. Water was welling up from the ink. It was pooling on the page and still spreading.

He looked around the table having learned that he needed to gauge his level of incredulity with the reactions of those around him. His shock was mirrored on their faces. Not just shock. Fascination and bafflement.

"So it's not supposed to do that," Draco surmised. "Apparently you don't have a magical written language?"

"No," said Hermione, leaning halfway over the table to look at the parchment. "Not at all."

"Why is it doing that?" Harry asked, looking interested but not quite as captivated as his girlfriend.

Bill shrugged. "As far as I can tell, the words themselves are a form of magic. Watch this." He wrote out another glyph on the page. Fire sparked from the ink and then drowned out in the rapidly spreading pool of water. "That word is fire," Bill explained needlessly.

"That's all well and good," said Sirius. "But how do you turn it off?" He pushed back from the table as the water started flowing in his direction.

Bill reached over with the quill and struck through the glyph.

The water stopped.

Draco looked at the pool of water on the table and considered all the implications of having a magical written language. Would the effect be non-stop? Would water continue to flow from a written word for all eternity?

And for that matter, where did it get its energy from? Surely it had to draw power from somewhere.

His musings were interrupted with a flash of magic. Molly Weasley had the water cleaned up in two expert flicks of her wand.

"And now we know what the Merlin Code is capable of," said Severus, his drawling voice taking on a pensive sort of note. "Now the only question that remains is what are we supposed to do with it?"

Draco could tell the Order members were trying very hard not to look over at him, but most of them still did. Draco shrugged at them, and then winced. Just a few hours ago, his rib had been fractured. The potion had healed it, but it was still uncomfortable.

"We'll find your memories," Bill said. "But at least we know why you had to wipe your memories."

Draco blinked. "We do?"

His confusion was echoed by the rest of the Order, so Bill slid him a piece of notebook paper. "Write the glyph for water."

Oh.

That made sense.

Draco felt a little stupid for not realizing it sooner. He took the quill and wrote out the glyph.

Nothing happened.

Draco tipped his head, studied the glyph, and then the very smallest hint of moisture emerged from the ink.

"You still don't accept magic," Bill said.

"I accept it," Draco said. "I just… struggle with not knowing how it works."

"What did that prove?" Ron asked.

"Draco erased his memories to erase his knowledge of magic," Bill explained. "The glyph's won't work if there's no intent behind them. Without the knowledge of magic, these glyphs are just shapes on a page."

"And Draco couldn't work with the glyphs if he kept drowning himself in water every time he wrote the word water," Hermione said, understanding dawning on her face.

Bill nodded. "No witch or wizard could work with these glyphs without regular magical catastrophes. There's a reason this code is kept in the Department of Mysteries. It's quite dangerous on its own."

"There's a whole journal of that language that Draco brought back," said Harry. "Will that start to magically explode?"

"No," said Draco. "I didn't know what it was when I was writing it, so the glyphs are inert. It's safe."

"And that's also why you had to keep erasing your memory every three months," Bill said. "While you were working with this code, you would have been starting to grasp the concept of magic, and that would have given the glyphs power. You had to keep wiping your mind to get rid of those hints."

"Okay," said Draco, because that made sense. "But why did I keep jumping cities?"

"Power," said Severus. Draco glanced over at the Potion's Master. Severus met his gaze. "That's very powerful magic you were working with. That's traceable."

"Bellatrix said she'd found me before," Draco said.

"If you accidentally learned too much about magic and accidentally imbued one of those glyphs with power, it would have been similar to lighting a beacon. It would have been easy for the Death Eaters to find you."

"So I had to keep myself dumb," Draco concluded.

"I doubt anyone could ever accuse of you that," said Bill.

Draco smirked a little. "And now we just need to know how to use the code."

"We'll start searching the Manor tomorrow," said Severus, getting up from the table. "If your memories are here, we'll find them. But I have potions brewing."

"And it is getting rather late," said Molly. "Does anyone need some tea before bed?"

Draco glanced at the clock. It was not even eight pm. Normally he wouldn't even think about turning in so early, but his body was still tired from the chaos of the day. His mind was sharp though, thanks to the nap he'd taken in the infirmary.

The Order dispersed. Draco began the rather long walk back to his room, and Ginny fell into step beside him. And then she took his hand. Draco smiled at her, swung their hands a little, and then stopped short to avoid Pansy who was hurrying down the hall. She was wearing a black sheath dress that wasn't nearly as indecent as it could have been. Draco was sure that was odd for her.

"Where you going?" Ginny asked.

Pansy shot them a mercenary kind of smile. "I've got a hot date with a red-head."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco asked, but she simply flounced down the hall.

"Best not to think about it," Ginny advised him.

She followed him into his room. Draco flopped onto his bed. Ginny sat beside him. "How are you holding up?"

"Oh, you know, discovered a couple of days ago that magic existed, and then I got tortured with magic by a crazy aunt this morning," said Draco.

Ginny winced a little. "I am sorry I left you."

He frowned up at her. "Don't feel guilty. It wasn't your fault."

"I know," said Ginny. "I understand that… I just wish I could protect you more."

Draco pondered that for a moment. "Did you protect other-Draco?"

It was Ginny's turn to frown. She leaned over him, so that her head filled his vision. "There is no other-Draco. You are Draco. Just because you don't have your memories doesn't make you a different person."

Draco sat up, forcing her to sit back. "Doesn't it though? I mean, I don't act like him."

"Like your usual self," Ginny corrected.

Draco waved her off. "No, what makes a person a person is their memories. I have no memories. No prior experiences, no knowledge to draw on. I'm someone different." He paused a moment, but then continued his thought. "I'm someone who might not be good enough right now. There's a war going on, and I can't even protect myself."

Ginny shook her head. "When you were panicking earlier today, about learning that this house is yours, you shut down and went cold instead of getting anxious. That's you."

Draco huffed a little, not convinced.

"The way you want to know things," Ginny continued. "Your curiosity, your desire to learn, your quick-thinking. That's you."

Draco shifted a little, slightly abashed at the praise.

Ginny smiled. "The way you're uncomfortable right now, because you always get uncomfortable when someone says something nice about you, that's you."

Draco met her gaze. She smiled wider and leaned in for a kiss. He obliged, all to happy to press his lips against hers, to drink in her warmth, to have his vision clouded with the red of her hair.

She pulled back. "The annoying habit you have of kissing with your eyes open – that's very much you."

Draco laughed a little, and then pulled her in for another kiss.

A knock on the door separated them. Harry poked his head in. His face looked pinched. "Do you have a minute, Draco?"

"Sure."

Harry came into the room and shut the door behind him. He looked at Ginny, and then at Draco. "What I'm about to tell you is a little sensitive."

Draco glanced at Ginny as well, but then looked back at Harry. "I trusted her with my castle of a house and my finances. I think I'm okay with her knowing what you're about to say."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want," Ginny told Harry, much more accommodating.

Harry shook his head. "No. It's good you're here too." He paused, a little awkwardly, and then sat on the bed as well. "I think I know the reason you left."

Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry. "And the reason you're just telling me this now is…?"

"Five years ago you told me not to say anything," said Harry. "Well, not in so many words, but it was implied that the reason you were leaving was secret and that I shouldn't tell anyone."

Harry stopped for a minute and rubbed his forehead. Draco found his gaze drawn to the lightning bolt scar that appeared almost carved into his skin.

"What did I tell you five years ago?" Draco asked.

"Five years ago, before you left, you told me that I was the Chosen One," Harry said.

"Was I a fan of stating the obvious?" Draco asked.

Harry laughed a little, but hollowly. "No. You were telling me that because some people thought I might not be the savior."

Draco took in that information, confused. He hadn't thought it was up for debate. Neither did Ginny, apparently.

"Who thought that?" she demanded, something like outrage in her voice.

Harry met her gaze. "Dumbledore."

Ginny stared at him. Her eyes went round.

"Dumbledore told me before he died that I had to be willing to die myself, because I might not be the savior of the wizarding world."

"That's insane," said Ginny firmly. "You've been the one defeating Voldemort this whole time. Of course you're the savior. You're the Boy-Who-Lived."

"That's the problem," said Harry. "I'm not… I'm not _just_ me. When Voldemort killed my parents, he split his soul."

"And made a horcrux," Ginny said, nodding.

"Sorry, what now?" Draco asked.

"It's a piece of Voldemort's soul kept in a vessel," said Ginny. "We tracked them down in your final year of school. It was very impressive. There was a dragon and everything."

Draco wanted to ask about this whole 'soul-splitting' non-sense, but found himself completely sidetracked.

"Dragons," he breathed out. And yes, that was a good thought. Much better than unicorns and werewolves. Dragons were _real_. "Ginny, is it possible to buy a dragon?"

She flicked him in the ear. Draco glared at her, but she tipped her head meaningfully at Harry. He looked pale, distraught.

Draco reluctantly pulled himself back to the topic at hand. "Right. Sorry. Go on. You were talking about horcruxes."

"The reason I can't kill Voldemort is because I _am_ a horcrux," said Harry. "Dumbledore told me that before he died. A part of Voldemort is in me."

Draco winced, because that sounded gross, but he didn't know how outside the realm of normal this was, so he looked over at Ginny. Her hand was over her mouth. Her face was losing color.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed, and reached out her hand to clasp his knee.

"Sorry to hear that," Draco told Harry, trying for commiserating. "That sounds… very serious."

"It is," said Harry, his face constricting. "Dumbledore said he didn't know how to separate me from the horcrux. Because of that, any magic that I do against Voldemort is… neutralized." Harry took in a breath and steeled himself. "The worst part is – as long as I am alive, Voldemort will be alive. And to kill Voldemort completely, I have to die as well, so every piece of him is gone."

He looked up at Draco and Ginny. "That's why I'm not the savior."

"Then who is?" Draco asked.

Harry gestured at him. "Dumbledore thought it was you."

Draco laughed at the thought. "That's…," he stopped, because Harry wasn't laughing. He looked over at Ginny. Her eyebrows were knitted, expression concerned and confused.

"Dumbledore said I shouldn't hold onto something that isn't mine, that the role of hero isn't mine. And you knew, Draco. You knew about the horcrux five years ago, but you didn't tell me."

There was anger in his voice, and betrayal.

"What did I say?" Draco asked, curious. "What did I say all those years ago?"

Harry sighed. "You said not to believe anyone who said I wasn't the savior. You said… you said you were going to make sure that I was the savior. And that's why you left. I think you were looking for a way to rid me of the horcrux."

Draco nodded. "Okay. I don't suppose I left any hints with you before I left?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't even think you knew then that you'd have to wipe your memories. I think that came later. I don't even know if you knew about the Merlin code then."

"You did," said Ginny. "The last night… the last night you were here, you asked Bill about his journals. And the next you left."

"So I must have realized that the Merlin Code could help Harry."

"You really didn't want to be the savior," Harry confirmed.

"Smart of me," said Draco. "So that gives us something to work with, right? There must be something in the code, or something the code is used for that can separate Harry from the horcrux." He looked at Harry. "We should probably keep this between us for now."

"I thought I should actually tell the Order," said Harry.

"What?" Draco asked. "No – terrible idea."

"I haven't told anyone else what Dumbledore told me because it wouldn't have solved anything," said Harry. "There was no one else to be the savior and… and as long as I'm alive, I'm holding Voldemort to a sort of … stalemate. Neither of us can get the upper-hand, seeing as our magic neutralizes each other. But now you're here."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco asked.

Harry shrugged. "What if you didn't find a way to separate me from the horcrux? What if you found a way to defeat Voldemort, and you are the savior?"

"That's ridiculous," said Draco. He turned to Ginny. "Tell Harry that's ridiculous."

"It is ridiculous," Ginny agreed. Harry looked surprised, so Ginny sighed. "Harry, as much as I love Draco, he is not the hero of the wizarding world. That position has always been yours. And if Draco told you five years ago that he was going to make sure you were the hero, then that's what he did."

Draco nodded. "So, no more arguing. You're the savior, and we're going to keep this between us because we're in the middle of a war. I'm not going to tell a bunch of people that their secret weapon is a dud until we know we can fix it." He looked at Harry. "No offense."

"You just wiped all of your memories and spent five years on the run to save my life" said Harry. "You're really not going to be able to offend me."

"Pretty sure it wasn't just altruism on my part," said Draco. "Pretty sure if I save you then the world gets saved, including me. So you could just say I'm very selfish."

"Huh," said Harry, looking at him a little curiously. "You know, you said nearly the same thing five years ago."

"Good to know I was a genius then too," said Draco.

oOoOoOoOo

Pansy stepped out into the living room of Percy Weasley's flat.

It was… unexpected.

She'd been expecting something Spartan and minimalistic. Percy was conservative in his dress and appearance and she had assumed that his home would reflect that. She'd been expecting a sparse and clean environment, maybe done in shades of whites and grays with plenty of glass accents.

Instead, the only word to describe the room was 'comfortable'. It was decorated in shades of blue and brown, with accents of ivory and mint. Bookshelves lined the walls, holding an eclectic collection of books, photos, and knickknacks. The sofa and chairs looked soft and plump, and they were covered with a variety of throw pillows, all charmingly mis-matched. There was a collection of knitted blankets as well that appeared to be handmade. Pansy was pretty sure they were Mrs. Weasley's handiwork, which meant they must be painstakingly cared for, seeing as Percy and the others hadn't been talking for over five years.

"Ms. Parkinson."

Pansy turned. Percy was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He was still in his business robes, and there was a slight pinch to his features that suggested he had just arrived home himself, and that it had been a hard day at the office.

"I'm impressed," said Pansy with a flirtatious sort of smile. "Most single men live in pigsties."

"Haven't you heard?" Percy asked wryly. "I live at the office."

Pansy laughed a little at the self-deprecation. ""I believe another theory says you're a remarkable life-like golem that sprang up out of the paperwork one night."

Percy laughed as well. It was a startled, unpracticed sort of sound. He cut it off rather quickly. "I apologize, but I haven't had dinner yet. I was planning on eating now. Did you want anything?"

Pansy crossed over to the kitchen, sashaying just a little. She made sure to brush by him so that he'd catch a whiff of her perfume. "What do you have?" She opened the refrigerator uninvited. It was stocked with the basic sort of supplies. Pansy looked it over with a critical eye. "How do you feel about chicken alfredo?"

Percy looked like he wanted to object, so Pansy turned with a fetching smile. "I'll cook. You go change."

Percy's frowned deepened. "Ms. Parkinson, there's no need to cook. I assure you, now that I am aware of your circumstances…,"

He paused. Pansy carefully hid a triumphant smile. She had been leaving a trail of false information for Percy to find. He thought of her as a damsel in distress, so she left clues that would only confirm his suspicious. He would have put all the pieces of the puzzle together and been convinced that Pansy was trying to escape an arranged marriage to a particularly cruel and powerful Death Eater.

It was all false, of course. But Pansy realized that she could find nothing on Percy. Nothing to prove he was the coward that his family painted him to be.

There was nothing but Percy's own memories to prove that fact. And to get his memories, first she needed to get Percy alone. And in relative privacy. So she'd painted herself as the victim to get close to him. And now she was here. In his house.

"You have my assistance," Percy told her, voice serious. "You don't have to put yourself out."

Pansy shook her head. "Let me return the favor."

"I haven't done anything for you yet," said Percy.

"You will," said Pansy. She shooed him out. "Go change. Get comfortable. I'll cook."

Percy acquiesced with a short nod. Pansy watched him walk down the hall and then step into his bedroom. The door closed behind him.

Good.

Pansy had no intention to cook, but she did want it to look like she was about to. She put a pot of water to boil on the stove. She flicked her wand to cut up the chicken and then put it in the oven.

She finally skimmed over the selection of wine in Percy's cabinet, selected a semi-dry white, and opened the bottle. She poured two glasses. In Percy's glass, she added a vial of blue liquid. It disappeared instantly.

She heard Percy's bedroom door open and quickly made herself look busy. She didn't bother turning around until he was in the kitchen, and then she started a little because…

Because Percy was wearing a pair of scuffed trousers and an old Quidditch t-shirt. And he had a tattoo.

Percy saw her gaze and her bafflement, and then he laughed a little. "It was Charlie's fault."

And then he stopped.

Pansy felt the familiar twist of pain in his chest, and if she were to guess, Percy felt it as well because he swallowed hard. "My apologies," he said softly. "I didn't mean to bring up any memories for you."

Pansy was a little unnerved that he knew that much about her, but it made sense. He did get the reports from the Civis Arma. It stood to reason he knew that she and Charlie had been serious.

"Don't apologize," she said, brushing it off so he wouldn't know how deep the pain was felt. She handed him the glass of wine. "Hope you don't mind I opened a bottle." No one ever suspected their own wine was poisoned. If she'd brought her own, he'd be more suspicious. "Tell me about the tattoo and why it was Charlie's fault."

He shook his head and raised the glass to his lips. He paused a moment. "Well, it wasn't all Charlie. It was a stupid attempt to try and be cool." He looked over at her, and there was something a little derisive in his look, like he was mocking himself. "Charlie was always cool."

He put the glass down on the counter without taking a sip of it. Pansy felt frustration well up in her chest, but she forced a smile. "Charlie was very cool," she agreed. It was easy to agree, because Charlie was… Charlie…

"Charlie was so completely comfortable in himself," said Percy.

" _Yes_ ," said Pansy, because that described Charlie perfectly.

"Charlie didn't care what anyone else thought of him," said Percy. "I always… well, I always cared too much. But when I was younger and I saw Charlie and his coolness and his tattoos, I mistakenly thought that his tattoos made him cool, and not the other way around. So I got myself a tattoo as well. And of course, I chose the nerdiest tattoo there was, so it did not help my cool factor at all."

Pansy raised her eyebrows, both at Percy's strange openness around her and because she was interested in the tattoo despite herself. Percy pulled up the t-shirt sleeve so she could read the Latin script around his bicep.

" _Ipsa scientia potestas est_. Knowledge itself is power." Pansy didn't bother to hide her smile. "Yes, a little nerdy."

Percy shrugged and sighed a little. "Well, you're practically family, so I guess you'd learn about it someway or another."

Pansy froze for a moment. Why did he make the comment 'almost family'? She suddenly wondered what else Percy knew. In piquing his interest, had he learned too much about her?

She covered her panic by raising her glass of wine. "To Charlie. And his coolness."

Percy huffed a bit of a laugh, and then picked up his glass as well. "To Charlie and his coolness," he repeated, clinking his glass with hers. They both took a swallow of wine.

Percy lowered his glass and frowned at the oven. "You know, I think you need to turn that on to make it work."

Pansy laughed a little. "So you do. Silly me."

Percy reached for the oven controls. "What temperature-,"

The wine glass slipped out of his hand and hit the floor. It shattered into hundreds of pieces. Wine and glass sprayed out in every direction.

"Whoops," said Pansy.

Percy looked down at his hand, confused. "I'm sorry. I don't…," He swayed a little. And then realization dawned. He looked up at Pansy, his expression shifting from confusion to shock. "What did you do?"

His eyes blinked rapidly behind his glasses, like he was trying to stay awake. His expression shifted to fear and he took a step backwards.

Glass crunched underneath his foot, and Pansy glanced down. He just had socks on his feet. Blood pooled from under his foot.

Percy backpedaled quickly, away from the glass. He stumbled into the china cabinet, lost his balance, and tried to catch himself. The cabinet toppled under his weight and they both went crashing to the floor. Nothing shattered though. The cabinet was charmed.

Percy clamored over it, the drug and desperation warring in his body. He managed to draw his wand, but it fell from numb fingers. Pansy watched him crawl into the living room leaving a trail of blood behind him. He grabbed onto the sofa and tried to pull himself up. He hissed in pain. His legs gave out.

He sank onto the floor.

Pansy stepped over the china cabinet and stood over him, watching him dispassionately. His eyes blinked slowly up at her.

"What did you do?" he asked, voice hardly more than a whisper.

"I drugged you," said Pansy.

She watched his eyes roll back for a moment. She watched him struggle to focus on her. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to end you," said Pansy. "I just need to know how."

She pulled out his wand and leveled it at his head. "Legilimens."

The first few thoughts were weird. In fact, they weren't thoughts at all, but sensations, sounds and smells and touch, but no sight. Everything was black except for a few splashes of color here and there. She pushed past it, and then found was she was looking for. The battle at the Ministry.

She watched Percy fight his way through the Ministry, and then she watched him stop fighting. She watched him walk down the last flight of stairs to the sixth floor, and watched him be surrounded by Death Eaters. And then Voldemort was in front of him. She watched Voldemort's smile stretch into a thin, cruel sort of smile.

"Percy Weasley," Voldemort said.

"Voldemort," Percy responded, quite perfunctory, as if they'd just ran into each other at the park.

The response from Voldemort was a flash of red. Pansy both saw Percy fall back, a spray of blood flying from a cut on his chest, and felt it herself – an echo of the pain Percy had felt in that moment.

She watched Percy get to his feet.

"That's Lord Voldemort," Voldemort corrected.

Percy stared at the Dark Lord. "The English Wizarding Ministry doesn't recognize titles since the Edwin Accords in 1922 when the aristocracy was abolished. And as your attempt at a coup has failed, you are in no position to re-write English law."

Pansy held her breath, wondering what sort of fool Percy Weasley was to quote historical facts at the Dark Lord. But Voldemort didn't respond in violence. Instead he threw back his head and laughed.

"I knew I'd taken the right one," he said.

And Pansy felt the dread Percy had felt pool in her stomach.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

Awful place to stop it, I know. But next chapter will be about the attack on the Ministry and everything that happened. Honestly, getting it up in one week might be beyond me. Two weeks, I'm thinking.


	8. The Fall of the Ministry, Part I

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do own a caffeine headache right about now. Must…have…more…coffee.

Author's note: So – sorry this was late. I got an epic virus that knocked me out for several days. This chapter is a part one, just an FYI…

OoOoOoOoO

 **One year ago…**

"And how are you this morning, Minister?" Violetta Gabny asked. Her silver hair was in its usual perm of tight, silver curls. A blend of blue and purple eye shadows reached up to her eyebrows. Her lips were bright pink, matching the gaudy brooch on her knitted cardigan.

"I can't complain, Vi," said Kingsley, watching as she expertly poured him a cup of coffee from the silver carafe.

She tutted a little at his response. "You're the Minister of Magic, not a saint. You're allowed to complain."

"Yes, ma'am," said Kingsley, smiling at her chiding.

Violetta turned to Percy. "And how are you, dear?"

Kingsley smiled wider at Percy's weary expression. Violetta never called Percy by his title, it was always 'dear' or 'darling' or 'honey'.

"I'm quite well, thank you Ms. Gabny," said Percy, quite perfunctory. Percy never called Violetta anything but 'Ms. Gabny', a passive-aggressive protest at the terms of endearment.

"I can tell you didn't sleep well last night," said Violetta, pouring his coffee. "You have such circles under your eyes. You should drink some lavender and unicorn hair tea before bed. That will set you right to sleep."

She patted his hand with her soft, wrinkled one. Percy's face remained carefully neutral. Kingsley kept on smiling. Violetta was the Minister's personal server during the first shift of the day, which covered breakfast and lunch. She had held the position for fifty years, and didn't seem inclined to retire any time soon.

Now that the coffee was poured, Violetta set out the serving tray holding tiny pitchers of cream and small bowls of sugar. She nestled the tiny stirring spoons in expertly folded serviettes and then turned to pull the drapes open more. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows, lighting the small, decadent room unofficially known as 'The Breakfast Nook'.

It had once been a small receiving room, but had been turned into the Minister's private dining room sometime in the 1800s. Kingsley routinely took his breakfast in the room, and his lunches, when he wasn't dining with the cabinet. Previous Ministers sometimes dined with the wives and children in the room, and others dined with their paramours. But Kingsley had no family. And there was a war going on, so it seemed prudent to work through the meal. That was why he always invited Percy to eat with him.

Well, that and Percy was the son of Arthur and Molly Weasley. Although things were strained between Percy and his family now, Kingsley knew that Molly Weasley would want someone making sure her boy took his meals regularly and wasn't working himself to death.

Percy waited, as usual, for Kingsley to take his cream and sugar first before doctoring his own coffee. Kingsley watched Percy's choices carefully because he could always tell what sort of day it was going to be by the way Percy took his coffee. A splash of cream in his coffee meant it was going to be a relatively easy day – not that governing a country in a civil war was easy, rather that there wasn't anything too daunting on the daily schedule. Black coffee meant Percy was too focused on the schedule or projects at hand to remember to add cream. Those days were busy and chaotic. If Percy took his coffee with both cream and sugar, it meant he was bracing for something truly awful.

Kingsley watched Percy reach for the cream – ruling out the chaotic day. He held his breath for a moment, wondering if Percy was going to reach for the sugar next. Percy didn't. He simply stirred his coffee into a light, almond brown shade, and then set his spoon down on his saucer.

Kingsley let out the breath silently, relieved, and caught the way Violetta ducked her silver head to hide her smile.

"Well, Percy," said Kingsley, taking a sip of his own coffee. "Tell me what we're up against today."

Percy flipped open the weekly calendar that sat next to him on the table. "At nine, you're meeting with the local governors to address the current emergency protocols, particularly the Auror and medi-witch response policies, but I can imagine they're also interested in knowing if they will receive any more funding for the emergency personnel. The answer is no – not until you meet with the Minister of Finances. There will probably be a small photo op when you meet with the governors."

Kingsley frowned a little, because he hated shaking hands and smiling for photos. It seemed disingenuous when there was a war being fought. Violetta caught his frown and slid a plate of egg-whites, turkey bacon, tomatoes and wheat toast in front of him. Kingsley frowned even harder. She slipped him an apple danish. Kingsley grinned at her.

"You're meeting the Minister of Finances at one," said Percy, "so you can ask him about funding for the response teams then. He'll probably say no, not until you can tell him how much foreign aid is coming in. At three, you have a meeting with the Secretary of the Protection of Magical Animals to discuss the illegal use of magical animals for personal protection and defense of private domiciles."

"Really?" Kingsley asked.

Percy looked up from the calendar and Violetta took the opportunity to slip his breakfast plate in front of him. It was brimming with eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast and muffins. Far more food than even Kingsley could eat. Violetta, being the grandmotherly type she was, constantly tried to 'fatten' Percy up.

"You remember the article about a dragon being used as a guard dog?" Percy asked, absent-mindedly reaching for his fork.

"Ah," said Kingsley. He did remember that article. He took a bite of the danish, relishing in the too-sweet, too-sticky pastry. Damn the nutrition Healers and their stupid diets.

"And at six you have a dinner meeting with the German Minister to discuss what financial aid his country is willing to provide."

Kingsley paused, mouth full of danish. He chewed, swallowed, and then asked, "Isn't my day a little backwards?"

"Yes, yes it is," said Percy. "Would you like to know why it's backwards?" He had that particular glint in his eye that came with wrangling uncooperative bureaucrats.

Kingsley knew, right then, that Percy was going to tell him all about that hell that was organizing the Minister's schedule and finagling with other Ministry officials. Kingsley braced himself for the diatribe, but was saved by a loud, ringing alarm that suddenly rang throughout the entire Ministry.

That was the evacuation alarm.

Kingsley didn't bother rushing. He down half of his coffee, popped a piece of turkey bacon in his mouth, and then got up from the table, taking the rest of the danish with him. Percy muttered something under his breath about Death Eaters and inopportune times. He tucked his calendar under his arm and followed Kingsley to the door, coffee in hand. Violetta hurriedly put covers over their breakfast plates and followed them out the door.

Kingsley led the way to his office, the two Aurors who were his bodyguards for the day falling into step beside them. Kingsley didn't bother running. Hardly a week went by without some sort of emergency bell ringing. It was almost routine at this point.

"What is it this time?" Kingsley asked the first Auror, a fresh-faced boy who hardly looked old enough to take his OWLs.

"Skirmish at the checkpoint, sir," said the Auror.

Kingsley nodded, already expecting that answer. Three years ago, a string of assassinations had rocked the minor offices of the Ministry. In response, Kingsley had stepped up security. Anyone who entered the Ministry was checked for weapons, contraband, and polyjuice potion. While the Aurors had gotten very good at keeping the Death Eaters out of the Ministry, it didn't keep the Death Eaters from constantly trying to sneak it.

"We'll have you out of here in no time, sir," the Auror promised, striding over to the fireplace. The second Auror took up a guard position by the door.

Kingsley turned to Percy, who had a pinched look about his face that said he was trying to re-arrange his schedule today. "Maybe it will be a quick trip."

Percy frowned. "We better be back by eight-thirty if you want to be on time for your nine o'clock."

"Oh, dear, I'm afraid breakfast will be cold by then," Violetta fretted.

The guard tossed a handful of Floo powder into the flames. "The Mi-,"

Violetta whipped her wand out, stunningly fast for a woman over seventy. "Incendious!"

The fireplace exploded.

Kingsley was knocked back several feet by a blast of heat, energy, and smoke. He hit the floor and immediately rolled away from the flames. He grabbed his wand and stumbled to his feet. He could see Violetta through the smoke. The second Auror was trying to stun her. She threw a killing curse. The Auror fell.

Kingsley shouted a stunning spell but it was blocked. She responded with a barrage of dark curses. Kingsley stumbled back, his shield charm flickering alarmingly, and then something Quaffle-sized struck her in the head.

She dropped to the ground. Kingsley could see the projectile was a marble bust of the third Minister. He looked over. Percy was on the floor, the pages of his calendar strewn about him. His wand was halfway across the floor – he'd lost it in the blast.

"Nice throw," said Kingsley.

Percy gave him a look that said he didn't appreciate light-hearted banter while the Ministry was under attack. "We need to get you to the secondary egress."

A siren-sort of alarm started wailing then, its tone discordant with the evacuation alarm. That was the fire bell.

Kingsley tightened his grip on his wand.

This was anything but routine.

OoOoOoO

The alarm rang right as Ginny got to the third courtroom of the Ministry.

It was early – just turned eight o'clock – but the courtroom was already near to full capacity. The trial of Brad Turner, wizarding heartthrob/model, was a high profile event. He was accused of aiding and abetting known Death Eaters and participating in assaults against Muggle-born wizards and witches. Due to his popularity and fame, the media was following the proceedings very closely – along with hundreds of school-aged fan girls.

Said fan-girls started screaming when the alarm rang and ran for the doors. The Ministry employees, who were used to the alarms by now, simply rolled their eyes and began packing up their belongings before heading towards the doors. Ginny pushed opposite the crowd to get to the prosecution table where Advocate Preston and his secretary, Hilda Lovely, were packing up their papers.

"Miss Weasley," Preston said, giving her a bland smile. "Right on time to leave again."

"Do you think it's actual Death Eaters, or just Turner-tweens trying to rescue their fantasy boyfriend from trial?" Ginny asked. She took half of the stack of folders from Hilda.

"I wouldn't put it past them," said Preston.

They trailed the rest of the occupants of the courtroom out into the hall. There was a little bit of chaos and a little bit of pushing, as was typical. The stairwell was narrower than the hall, and a little bit of a bottleneck was expected.

"Do you think they lit a garbage can fire?" Preston asked. "Or perhaps used some of your brothers' smoke bombs?"

Ginny shook her head. "The fire alarm isn't ringing. My bet is they stormed the holding cells."

"I think they dosed the guards with love potion and set Turner free," said Hilda.

Ginny laughed a little at the mental image, and that was when the second alarm started. It was a siren-sounding alarm that clashed horribly with the ringing of the evacuation alarm.

"Ha," said Preston. "Fire bell. I win."

The pushing and shoving increased again as the second alarm spurred even the weary Ministry employees to pick up the pace. They reached the stairwell and started climbing. About half of the crowd ahead got off at level nine, wanting to take the lift up to the atrium. It was only one more floor up though. Ginny didn't really see the point.

Preston and Hilda obviously agreed because they followed the half of the crowd taking the stairs. They were only halfway up when the crowd stopped moving.

And then there was screaming from the people above – terrified, high-pitched screams, and then people were shoving. The kind of shoving that came when people were trying to escape something truly horrible.

Ginny was knocked backwards. She dropped the folders in favor of catching herself on the railing. People rushed past her, pushing and screaming and terrified, and she pushed herself into the corner of the ninth floor landing and let the crowd push past her. She couldn't see what was causing the panic, but she could smell smoke, and she could feel a faint tremor in the wall of the stairwell. Something was happening in the atrium.

The last of the crowd pushed passed her, back down to the courtrooms. But there weren't any exits in the courtroom. The people would be trapped there.

Ginny glanced up the stairs. Her hand tightened on her wand.

"Miss Weasley."

Ginny looked over. Advocate Preston was holding onto Hilda. She had a hand over her face. Blood was dripping from her nose. No doubt she'd been struck in the chaos.

"We should move to the lower level until the Aurors come," said Preston.

"And if they don't come?" Ginny asked him. "Or if whoever is causing all that chaos upstairs comes down before the Aurors?"

Preston shook his head. "I'm not a soldier, Miss Weasley. Neither are you."

Ginny transfigured her high heels into flats. "I'm an excellent soldier, Advocate Preston. Try to lock the door behind you."

She started up the stairs, wand in hand. The door to the atrium came into a view, a thick wooden door that proclaimed 'Atrium' in gold lettering. Noise leaked through the door, nearly drowned out by the squealing alarms. It was a rumble of indistinguishable destruction. She placed her hand on the doorknob and carefully eased it open a crack.

The noise of a magical battle hit her – the shouted curses, the crack of spell-fire, the screams that followed a direct hit, the crumble of marble when the spell hit the walls and floors instead.

Ginny could see Death Eaters. Dozens of them. Maybe even a hundred. They were tearing through the atrium, targeting anyone in their sight. Ginny shut the door and cast a quick locking spell. She was an excellent soldier, but she wasn't going to be able to fight that battle alone.

OoOoOoOoO

Bill ran into the conference room and immediately did a quick head count. He had to start over again when Ron and Harry burst into the room, and then Sirius. Dean and Blaise followed a couple of seconds later.

Bill restarted his count and came up with a full Order. He turned to Severus and nodded.

"The Ministry is under attack," said Severus without preamble. "Initial reports put anywhere from fifty to two hundred Death Eaters on site."

There were several dismayed exclamations. Bill felt the tension in the room tighten.

"The strike teams should focus on getting the civilians out of the Ministry," said Arthur, leaning over the conference table. "We'll leave the fighting to the Aurors."

Bill glanced at his father, surprised. The Strike Teams had never shirked from battle before.

"We've never done that before," Charlie said, verbalizing Bill's thoughts.

"We've never been fighting at the Ministry before," Arthur said. "There's no sense risking our lives when there are supposedly trained professionals to handle the combat."

"The Aurors don't have that kind of manpower," Bill pointed out. "Not at the Ministry itself. And it's going to take time to recall re-enforcements from the local offices throughout the country."

"And whose fault is that?" Arthur challenged. "We've been warning them about needing to have more manpower for years now. And what about the Civis Arma? They're stationed at the Ministry, aren't they?"

"The Aurors and the Arma will have home field advantage," Sirius offered. "It may make sense to let them do the majority of the fighting."

"But not all the fighting," said Bill.

"You're just sore that the Ministry isn't handling Voldemort the way you want them to," Charlie said to Arthur.

"How many times did we pay the price for their inaction?" Arthur asked. "Do we risk our small force because of their mistake?"

"Without the Ministry, the general public will have no sort of protection," said Hermione. "We need to do something to help them."

"And how much protection does the Ministry truly offer?" Arthur asked. "Even with Kingsley as Minister, convicted Death Eaters are still running free."

"Let's take a quick minute," Bill said, ready to turn the conversation to something more productive. "Severus, were you aware of any plans Voldemort has for the Ministry?"

"No," said Severus. "The Dark Lord-," he stopped. His face went pale and his hand went to his arm.

"If Voldemort is just calling you now…," said Bill.

Severus nodded, completing the thought. "Then what he has planned is big. Very big. Big enough to keep a secret from anyone he doesn't truly trust. I will let you all argue this out."

He swept from the room. Bill frowned and caught Charlie's gaze.

"Voldemort is making a play for the Ministry," said Charlie.

Bill nodded.

"I say let him have it," said Arthur.

"A war zone is not a time for petty grievances," said Charlie. "People are going to die today, and you're content with only providing half of the support we could offer? All for what? For your injured pride?"

Bill saw his father's face turn red, both anger and embarrassment – when the Weasley temper was at its finest.

"Why not?" asked Pansy, sidling forward with a bit of a wicked grin on her face. "I say, screw the Ministry. Let them burn for not listening to reason, right? All those peons, working in their tiny cubicles, blind to everything that's happening around them… that's what they get for not choosing the right side. Let them be killed. Maybe then the rest of England will listen to us."

"Absolutely not," said Molly, looking rather offended.

"We're not going to leave the civilians in harm's way," said Arthur. He took in a breath, let it out slowly, and then gave a nod. "We coordinate with the Aurors on hand. If the need us to fight, then we'll fight. We'll take the high road on this one."

"How dull," said Pansy.

Bill watched her saunter over to Charlie and lean up to kiss him, a rather self-satisfied smile on her face. She'd just played Arthur Weasley. Bill shook his head a little. He often wondered – now that Charlie and Pansy were getting serious – what it would be like having her as a sister in law.

"The Ministry has safety protocols in place in case of a Death Eater attack," said Hermione. "The focus will be on getting the Minister to safety, and then other key personnel, the cabinet and Wizengamot and so forth. Once the officials have been evacuated, the focus will be on the civilians. And if the Ministry is over run, or if they fear that Voldemort is winning, they'll set the building to self-destruct. So if you hear a banshee scream, you have only three minutes to get out."

"What sort of self-destruct?" Ron asked.

"The building will shut down," said Hermione. "All of the magic will be leached from the building, doors and windows will be sealed shut, the lifts will stop working, no one will be able to get in or out."

"Like Hogwarts," said Harry.

"And then poisonous gas will fill the building," said Hermione.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Hogwarts didn't do that."

Bill rubbed the back of his neck to ease out some of the tension. "We're going to have to be smart about this. We'll split into our strike teams. Those of you who aren't on a strike team, find your designated captain. We want to make sure that each group contains people familiar with the Ministry layout, just so no one gets lost."

He stopped because Pansy was leaving the room and she was one of the people who knew the Ministry best. She waved as she left. "I'm sitting this one out."

Molly hurried after her, asking if it was still the flu she had from last week.

Bill turned back to the task at hand and suddenly felt very ill-equipped to handle it.

OoOoOoO

Chaos. It was absolute chaos.

Smoke was billowing. Alarms were blaring. Spells were flying.

The Death Eaters had taken out both emergency egress points on the second floor. Percy didn't know how they had known where the emergency exits were – but he also didn't know how Violetta had been impersonated. He was sure she had been impersonated. He didn't want to think that he'd been completely blindsided by a grandmother's face and sweet nicknames. A Death Eater must have used polyjuice to take her form. Or she'd been struck with the Imperious curse.

After the first exit had been lost, a contingent of ten Aurors had arrived, intent on getting the Minister to safety. By the time they had fought their way to the second and third egress points, the entire second floor was in flames or shambles. And the contingent of ten Aurors was down to four.

The fourth emergency exit was on the third floor.

"Stop, stop, stop!" Rudy hissed.

Percy did stop, halfway down the staircase to the third floor. He put out a hand, signaling Kingsley to stop as well.

The Minister let out an irritated breath. Percy knew that Kingsley wanted to fight – and as a former Auror, Kingsley had far more experience in battle scenarios than Percy did. Still, it was Percy's job to get him to safety. And that's what he was going to do.

Rudy glanced out the doorway to the third floor. Percy waited, his fingers cramping around his wand and sweat trickling down his neck. Or it could be blood. They were all a little scraped up – from the explosion at the fireplace and the battles at the second and third egress points.

"Okay, quick," Rudy said, and then they were moving again. Rudy and Auror Constance Eames were in the lead. George Parrish and Peter Holloway brought up the rear.

The fourth egress point was disguised as a maintenance closet deep within the third floor. Percy kept Kingsley back from the lead Aurors by half a hallway, knowing that the Aurors needed space to battle whatever threats they came across.

This time the threat was a basilisk. It struck around a corner, taking Constance and Rudy both by surprise. Kingsley reacted quicker than Percy did. Percy felt a hand snag his collar and yank him back as the basilisk lunged.

George and Peter ran forward, making a second line of defense between the basilisk and the Minister. Percy felt Kingsley step forward, and this time he yanked the Minister back.

"Stay," he told Kingsley.

Kingsley rolled his eyes, obviously telling Percy that he wasn't a child that needed to be protected. Percy rolled his eyes back because he knew Kingsley wasn't a child in need a protection. He was the Minister, for Merlin's sake.

A sharp, pained scream sounded, and they both whipped around. The snake had sunk it fangs into Peter's arm. The Auror was flung to the side. The others closed in, their spells coming out faster and stronger. Desperate. Percy began thinking of the other emergency exits. It appeared the Death Eaters had somehow managed to learn the Ministry's secrets. Would they have all the exits covered?

Another scream. A female's voice. Percy took in a quick breath, steeled his nerves, and then looked over.

Constance was down.

But so was the basilisk.

George was bloodied, bracing himself against the wall with one arm. Rudy was still standing. He looked at George, then at Percy and Kingsley, and then turned and ran further down the hall. Percy knew he was looking for the basilisk's retainers, the Death Eaters responsible for setting the snake loose. There were a few shouts, and few curses, and then Rudy called out.

"Clear!"

Percy moved out first, stepping quickly around the basilisk, not quite running but not walking either. Kingsley followed, matching his pace. Rudy was ahead, two dead Death Eaters at his feet. His face was grim, but once Percy and Kingsley caught up, he started down the hall at a run. They were all more than ready to get out of the Ministry.

Rudy turned left, Percy and Kingsley rounded the corner, and there it was. The maintenance closet.

It was padlocked shut with an old combination lock. The cleaning staff had one code that would open up the maintenance closet. Percy had the other code, the one that activated the closet into a vanishing cabinet. The twin cabinet was in an old stone manor, deep in the country. The Minister's safe house.

Percy entered the combination and then pulled the lock off the door. He pulled the door open and then stepped back. He turned to Kingsley. The Minister balked for a moment.

"I will stun you," Percy told him.

"I will fire you," said Kingsley.

"Let George go first," said Rudy. "Then the Minister."

George stepped through, his wand at the ready – just in case. His steps were only mildly unsteady for the amount of blood he seemed to be losing. Kingsley huffed out a breath, but then followed.

Rudy gestured for Percy to go next, but Percy didn't move forward.

There were alarms blaring throughout the Ministry building. The ringing evacuation alarm, the siren-like fire alarm, the piercing alarm that indicated there were hostile combatants, and the dinging alarm that announced medical emergencies.

There was no screeching, bashee alarm.

Percy knew that the Ministry had been lost. There were too many Death Eaters and too much damage. The building needed to be shut down. In fact, it should have been shut down at least half an hour ago. Something was wrong.

"Technically you should go in there too," said Rudy.

Percy looked over at him. "Technically this building should be dying by now."

They both paused a moment, and then Rudy reached out and shut the door. He re-hung the padlock. Percy felt a small measure of relief. The Minister was safe.

He turned to Rudy. "I need to get to the seventh floor."

Rudy nodded. "I'll take you there."

OoOoOoO

Ginny didn't start fighting until the Aurors arrived on scene. It made no sense to try to fight the battle alone, but once she saw the telltale red robes, she darted out of the stairwell and into the fray.

She'd gotten good at operating in battle scenarios. She knew to move along the perimeter of the room, so that she didn't have to watch her back, and she knew to conserve her energy. No big, sweeping curses or large, violent spells, rather small, directed hexes when she had the clear shot. It meant she'd save her energy while the enemy got tired.

She wasn't the only civilian fighting. This was the Ministry of Magic. Powerful witches and wizards took office here – and once the Aurors showed up and began pushing the Death Eaters back – several others rallied as well.

But the Death Eaters were fighting hard – and it made logical sense. The atrium held the largest entrance and exit points. Any emergency personnel who were trying to get in to help would have to enter through the atrium. And all the civilians, hoping to escape, would try to leave through the atrium. She could see that the Death Eaters were already trying to sabotage the long rows of fireplaces along the atrium walls. The Aurors noticed as well. They split into formations of three and began targeting the Death Eaters.

Ginny stayed back with the other civilians. She focused on the stray Death Eaters – the ones trying to dart through the atrium and delve deeper in the Ministry. She snagged one with a disarming spell followed by incarcerous. The second she stupefied.

The atrium was loud, full of blaring alarms and shouted spells and screams of pain and rage. She didn't hear the roar of flames until she felt a blast of heat from behind her. She stunned a third Death Eater and then whirled around to see a veritable tower of flames in the back of the atrium. That was where the lifts were stationed, leading to the rest of the Ministry.

There were a handful of wizards and witches that were feeding the flames. They weren't dressed like Death Eaters, but Ginny knew that's what they were. Only the Death Eaters would try to trap civilians in the Ministry – cutting them off from their main exit.

"The fire!" Ginny called to the other civilian fighters, grabbing their attention.

She shouted out a water spell, her curse combined with a dozen others. The flames faltered, but didn't die out, not when they were being fed by magic, so Ginny turned to the Death Eaters instead, intent on cutting them down.

The Death Eaters responded by whipping the flames at the rag-tag group of civilians. Ginny threw herself to the side, knowing that a protego charm couldn't shield her from those flames. She grabbed a middle-aged witch on the way down, both of them hitting the floor rather hard – but safe from the flames. She heard anguished screams that said not everyone was so lucky. She turned her head. Two of the civilian fighters were down, their bodies blackened and charred beyond recognition.

The flames grew higher, lapping at the ceiling now. The fire needed to be stopped before it took out the entire floor.

Ginny jumped to her feet and fired out a quick volley of hexes. Only one of the six landed, and then the flames were being whipped towards her again.

She called up a shield charm – a rather dark shield charm – one that Draco would have used. The flames hit and were completely absorbed by her ward. She captured the force of the fire in the shield and then thrust it back out – back towards the Death Eaters.

She caught them off guard. Three of them fell, not expecting her use of dark magic. A fourth whipped a slicing hex at her, and Ginny knew she was going to be too late to call up a shield charm. The dark magic had taken too much of her attention. She couldn't pull back in time, but then a voice rang out.

"Protego!"

A brilliant white shield was flung up around her. The slicing hex rebounded onto the caster. Ginny took the final Death Eater out and then whirled around. Bill was running towards her, an emerald green jacket on. He wasn't alone. It looked as if the entire Order was with him. Ginny could hear the cheers from around the atrium as the Order began helping the Aurors push back the Death Eaters.

"Need some help, sis?" Bill asked.

Ginny grinned.

OoOoOoO

Rudy held up a hand. Percy paused and watched Rudy's count, preparing himself. On three, Rudy stepped into the intersecting hallway, sent out a series of curses, and then safely crossed to the opposite side. On zero, Percy followed his same steps, but ducked in low to catch any remaining Death Eaters off guard.

Rudy had only left him one Death Eater. Percy caught him neatly with a stunning hex, and then joined Rudy on the other side.

The Auror didn't give him any sort of acknowledgement for a job well done, just turned and kept forging his way through the Ministry.

Percy didn't know where he got his energy. Percy felt exhausted. He felt tired and scared and sick to his stomach, and still they kept on, fighting floor after floor, working their way to the fourth, and the fifth, and so close to the sixth. While Percy was ready to drop, Rudy didn't appear to be flagging at all – and he was doing most of the grunt work. He was quick on the draw and powerful on the spells.

He was a little impetuous though. He preferred to throw himself into the thick of things instead of measuring up what was coming next and planning accordingly. That was what made him take the slicing hex to the arm on the next intersection.

Percy immediately covered him, taking out the two Death Eaters and hustling Rudy into a relatively protected doorway.

"Can you still use it?" Percy asked.

Rudy looked at him, expression tight and eyes pained, but his lips quirked up in a smile. "Yeah, not a problem."

Percy didn't call him on the obvious lie because he still needed the Auror.

They kept fighting their way to the back stairwell. Blood loss took Rudy out before they reached the stairs. Percy shoved him into an empty office, activated the beacon on his robe that would send help his way, and continued into the stairwell on his own.

He crept down to the sixth floor. It was conspicuously empty.

By the time Percy realized what that meant, he was already headed down the seventh.

So he continued.

He didn't even bother to stop when the Death Eaters took off their camouflaging robes and fell into step behind him. He made it to the seventh floor, pulled open the door, and then stepped out into the main hall.

Lord Voldemort was waiting for him in the lobby. Two dozen Death Eaters stood in rank behind him. Voldemort's face stretched into a parody of a smile. "Percy Weasley."

Percy didn't like that Voldemort knew his name. He logically understood that being Assistant Minister meant most of the country knew his name, but he felt a thrill of fear at Voldemort's use of his name. How much did Voldemort know about him?

Voldemort said nothing else. Percy glanced behind him, at the door to the stairwell now blocked by another dozen Death Eaters. He stepped further into the lobby, crossing the floor to face Voldemort. His fingers tightened on his wand. "Voldemort," he said, trying to stay calm and keep his voice even.

Voldemort whipped his hand out and a flash of fire seared across Percy's chest. He fell back with a cry, feeling a welt of seared flesh rise on his skin. He gasped, in both shock and pain, and then he was being hauled upright by two Death Eaters.

"That's Lord Voldemort," Voldemort corrected.

Percy took a minute the catch his breath. He tried to think of what to do. Surely others would be coming soon, the others who could initiate the self-destruct. They might even have Aurors with them. He just needed to stall.

Percy looked up at Voldemort. "The English Ministry doesn't recognize titles since the Edwin Accords in 1922 when the aristocracy was abolished. And as your attempt at a coup has failed, you are in no position to re-write English law."

And then Percy tensed, waiting for another flash of fire. Instead, Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. "I knew I saved the right one for last," he told his Death Eaters, and they laughed too, maliciously, like Percy was the butt of a joke he didn't understand yet.

Voldemort swept his robes to the side, and Percy saw four bodies on the ground behind him. Percy recognized those bodies. Those four were the only other ones who could trigger the self-destruct on the Ministry. The only other person with that power, apart from Percy, was Kingsley, and he was safely ensconced away to the secondary site.

Percy looked up at Voldemort in dawning horror. Somehow Voldemort had learned where the self-destruct trigger was hidden, and somehow he had learned who could activate the self-destruct. He had then simply waited for all of them to arrive – to kill them – to ensure that the Ministry would stay standing.

Voldemort was going to seize the building, and all of the power that came with it.

The country would be defenseless.

Percy felt terror wash over him. He lashed out with his wand in a last-ditch effort to stop the Dark Lord, but he was flung back with a simple wave of Voldemort's hand. His wand was torn from his grasp and went clattering along the floor. Percy hit the wall and dropped down. He caught himself on his hands and knees. He sucked in a breath and looked up at the Dark Lord. "What do you want?"

"I want this building," said Voldemort. "And now that I have you, the very last person who could foil my plan, I want information."

Percy pushed himself to his feet. He swayed a little. He didn't know if it was from fear, from hitting his head on the wall, or the spell-fire across his chest. "I'm just the Assistant. I don't know what you expect to gain from holding me hostage."

Voldemort stepped forward. "You are a very good assistant, Percy Weasley. That's what sets you apart from the others here." He gestured to the bodies, and then looked back at Percy, staring him in the eyes. Percy felt a shiver steal over him.

"I know all about you," said Voldemort, in a low, strangely hypnotic sort of voice. "I know that Fudge was a fool, and yet with your help, he became quite the successful Minister. So much so, that I needed to get rid of him. And I know how Oswald Tierney tried to break you, and I know that he couldn't succeed. You managed to overthrow him without ever raising a finger yourself, or revealing your part in his demise. And I know that you are the reason I can't seem to break this Ministry."

Percy laughed a little wildly. He couldn't help it. "That's… that's ridiculous," he managed. "I'm just the Assistant. I'm not the Minister, or anyone important. I _help_. I _assist_."

"You got enough foreign aid to replenish the Auror department," said Voldemort.

Percy paused for a moment, a little taken aback that Voldemort knew that fact. The Foreign Affairs Minister had been injured in a Death Eater attack, so Percy had gone in his stead and been able to talk the French Minister into a tidy sum of financial aid. "Well… yes," he allowed.

"You managed to create new policy to allow the Aurors to function as an army," said Voldemort.

Percy shook his head. "That wasn't me. That was -,"

"Don't say Howard Perkins," said Voldemort. "His idea was terrible. You turned it into something different."

"I suggested a few things," said Percy.

"It worked," said Voldemort.

"Well… yes."

"You set a curfew," said Voldemort.

"That was pretty unpopular."

"But effective. You also made supporting Death Eaters to be an act of treason."

"That one still hasn't worked completely," said Percy. "It's been difficult to prove in court."

"You still managed to take out some of my key financial support."

Percy shrugged a little. He didn't want to brag or anything –

Percy stopped that thought. This was Voldemort in front of him, and it was likely that he was going to kill Percy before too long, so what did it matter if he gloated?

So Percy looked Voldemort in the face and gave a little laugh. "I cut your funding in half."

Voldemort's eyes seemed to flash in anger. "Crucio."

Pain.

Pain so severe that Percy dropped to the ground like his strings had been cut. It felt like every nerve ending had just been branded and all he could do was scream.

And he did scream. Violently. His limbs writhed and shook.

Dimly, a part of his brain told him that Voldemort hadn't even used a wand, and that just made him scream harder.

The pain ended so abruptly that it felt like he was plunged into ice-water because the fire in his body was gone so suddenly. It left him shivering on the floor.

"You can see why I'm irritated with you," said Voldemort.

"Seems… understandable," Percy said, his teeth chattering together from the twitching nerves in his jaw.

"You're like… Lucius Malfoy," said Voldemort.

Percy didn't know what he was talking about. He didn't know if he cared what Voldemort was talking about.

"You are so very good getting in my way," said Voldemort. "And yet… you have so much knowledge. So much I need to know."

He knelt down beside Percy. Percy tried to flinch away, but Voldemort grabbed his face. He peered into his eyes, and Percy wondered if Voldemort could see how terrified he was.

"Yes, you're scared," said Voldemort. He placed a hand on Percy's neck and squeezed. Percy choked, tried to fight him away, but his hands were grabbed and pinned down with only one of Voldemort's hands. The Dark Lord was far too strong to be just human. He was something else. Something supernatural.

"I need to know who is in the Civis Arma," said Voldemort. "You have been a thorn in my side with your political machinations, but the Civis Arma is the true threat to me."

Percy wheezed in a breath. "I don't – I don't know that," he said, voice coming out strained from the pressure on his neck.

Voldemort shook his head. "You must know."

"No, no I don't," Percy protested. "The Civis Arma is secret. They don't release names. They're called by the round table – you must know the lore behind it."

Voldemort released the pressure on Percy's neck and stood. Percy gasped in air.

"I do know the lore," Voldemort said. "But I also know that you are an intelligent man. You must know who is in the Civis Arma, even if it is supposed to be secret."

"You want me to guess?" Percy asked.

"Yes," said Voldemort. "I want you to make educated guesses and give me a list of names. Then, I will murder every person you name so that there will be no more Civis Arma."

"Okay," said Percy. "Thompson Kincaid."

"Crucio," said Voldemort.

The fire returned and Percy screamed. His muscles seized and shook and cramped. He kept screaming until he ran out of breath, and then his body reflexively sucked in air, and he was screaming again.

The curse ended.

Percy sobbed in relief.

"Thompson Kincaid is mine," said Voldemort. "Don't try to play games with me."

"You're playing a game with me," Percy managed. He wiped the tears from his eyes. "Pick a name and watch you kill that person?"

"This is war, Percy," said Voldemort. "And I have seized you, a key player in this war. You're mine to use now." He knelt down again and patted Percy's face. "A pity no one quite realized how valuable you are. So, yes, names. I will have them."

Percy sighed and closed his eyes. There was only one thing to say now. He knew as soon as he said it he would die, and it wasn't going to be pretty. It wasn't going to be easy. He was going to be in pain, and he could only hope that he could last long enough not to hate himself when he died.

He opened his eyes. "No," he said, and then he felt tears fall down his face. Hot, miserable tears. Percy didn't want to die. He had never wanted to be a soldier or a spy or a vigilante fighter. And yet here he was – captured by Voldemort, tortured by Voldemort, and going to be killed by Voldemort.

A small childlike voice in the back of his head said that it wasn't fair.

Percy dropped his head against the cold marble floor and wondered for a moment at that voice. He was a middle son in a family nearly full of sons. He had never expected life to be fair.

Voldemort stared down at him, dispassionate and unfeeling. "Crucio."

Pain.

It rolled over him and consumed him.

OoOoOoO

I know, I know. This is a terrible place to stop. But come on, you know that Percy survives, seeing as all this drama took place a year ago. But it is a cliff-hangar. I will try to get the next chapter up by next week – and if I can't, I'll give updates via my profile page if there are any delays. Also - no Draco in this chapter. So weird!


	9. The Fall of the Ministry, Part II

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do have a cuddly dog at this moment, so I'm not horribly disappointed.

Author's Note: Character death ahead. You know the one.

OoOoOoOoO

Pain.

Percy screamed from it. He couldn't help but scream from it.

He screamed louder than he thought was possible and longer than he thought was possible. He ran out of air. His lungs sucked in reflexively and the air seemed like sandpaper on his raw throat.

And then he screamed again, long and loud and hard.

How long had he been screaming?

The spell stopped.

The pain stopped, but his body stung in the after-effect. Percy curled in on himself, wishing he could melt through the marble floor. He gasped in a ragged breath.

"Will you answer me, Percy?" Voldemort asked, towering above him.

How many times had he been asked that?

Percy pulled in a couple of quick breaths to brace himself. He shook his head instead of answer because his voice was cracked and hoarse and he was already in so much pain he wanted to spare himself that small piece of discomfort.

"Crucio," said Voldemort.

Percy screamed.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Ginny sent out several hexes, and then dropped back, letting Bill sweep in and take the Death Eaters by surprise. His blasting hex shoved two of the three Death Eaters back, but the third responded with a sudden fire hex. Ginny darted in and called up a shield charm. The fire hit, flared up around the shield, and then dissipated. Ginny dropped the shield.

Bill cast a stunning charm, the Death Eater blocked it, but Ginny was already sending a second. The Death Eater wasn't expecting it. The spell hit and the Death Eater dropped.

Ginny ran forward, Bill outpacing her and reaching the Death Eater first because he wasn't wearing a pencil skirt. Ginny felt the slit in the back of her skirt tear even further as she reached the downed Death Eaters. She stunned the two that had been toppled by Bill's blasting hex and then quickly bound them with an incarcerous spell.

She immediately looked up once she had finished, wand at the ready, but for the first time since the Aurors and Order had arrived, the fight in the atrium had stopped. Instead of finding the next skirmish, Ginny instead found herself staring at the aftermath of the battle.

Bodies littered the marble floor, and Ginny was briefly reminded of her fourth year – when the DA had gone to the Department of Mysteries – but this was bigger. Much bigger. At least half of the Floos were out, the fireplaces destroyed by the Death Eaters. Smoke was rising from several locations, staining the air gray and stinging her eyes. The marble floor was cracked in places and smeared with blood in others. Nearly all of the lifts had been destroyed, and the elevator wells were nothing more than charred tunnels. The fountain in the center of the atrium was broken and spraying a constant hiss of water onto the floor.

The bodies were the worst though. Some were in the black robes of the Death Eaters, some in the red-robes of the Aurors, but most were in neutral-toned business robes. Just regular people who had come in for a regular day of work.

Ginny paused for a moment, because now that the adrenaline was fading, the horror of war was sinking in.

"Get me a standing Floo to St. Mungo's," a voice rang out.

Ginny turned. Hermione was standing beside one of the fireplace. Her face was smudged with dirt. Her emerald green jacket was torn on one sleeve. For a moment, no one moved. And then an Auror strode over – Ginny recognized her. Helen Adams, one of the Civis Arma.

"Yates, Carson," she said, voice commanding, "I want all the injured triaged for a Floo trip to St. Mungos." She reached over to the fireplace and pulled out Floo powder. "Pulaski and Rivera, I want every live Death Eater in shackles and put somewhere out of the way."

And then there was purpose again. The Aurors began moving, began tending to those on the floor. The civilians, those that were mobile, began helping, still looking a little stunned. The Order members wandered closer to Bill, waiting for their next task. Ginny followed them, taking stock of who was present – Dean and Blaise and Oliver and Tonks. The other Order members must be elsewhere in the Ministry.

"Weasley."

Ginny and Bill both turned. Helen crossed over to them, two Aurors trailing behind her.

"What's the situation?" Bill asked.

"This was just one group of Death Eaters," said Helen. "We're getting reports that Death Eaters are on every floor."

"Kingsley?" Bill asked.

"The Minister has been evacuated, as well as most of his cabinet and most of the Wizengamot. But we have hundreds of civilians still trapped in the building and at least a hundred Death Eaters on site. They're trying to take the Ministry – and in doing so, they're trying to take as many civilians hostage as they can."

"What can we help you with?"

Helen brushed her hair out of her face. "We need to get as many civilians evacuated as possible. And we need to set the self-destruct on the Ministry."

Ginny felt something break in her heart. First Hogwarts. Now the Ministry. Would the losses ever stop?

"How do we set the self-destruct?" Bill asked.

"There are six Ministry officials who know where the destruct is located and can initiate the countdown. We're trying to locate them now, but we're probably going to have to go floor-to-floor."

Bill nodded. "We'll help you find them. Who are we looking for?"

Helen hesitated. It was clear she was warring with herself because revealing that kind of Ministry secret was treasonous, but then desperation won out. "The Minister himself."

"Who's already safe," Bill said.

"The Minister's Assistant."

"Percy?" Ginny asked in surprise.

Helen nodded. "Then John Kelley, Head of the Cabinet. Flora Chaucer, Secretary of the Cabinet, Gregor Lee, Head Councilor of the Wizengamot, and Licester Jones, Vice Councilor."

"And if we can't locate them?"

Helen looked grim. "Then we'll have to take back every inch of this Ministry."

Ginny looked around her. Already the battle for the atrium had claimed too many lives, and had taken too long. How long would it take to reclaim the full Ministry? Days? Weeks? Was it even possible?

"We'll go with you," Bill said. "We rescue civilians as we go, we find those officials, and then we help set the self-destruct."

Helen nodded.

"There are at least a hundred civilians in the courtrooms," Ginny said, thinking of Advocate Preston and Hilda.

"You focus on getting the civilians out," Bill told her. "And hold the atrium. We'll be sending more down to you as we clear out floors. But be careful. I have a feeling the Death Eaters will be back. They've already proven they want to take out as many egress points as possible."

Ginny nodded. She recognized that as well.

"Finn and Petrov will help," said Helen, gesturing to the two Aurors behind her. "The rest of us… the Ministry is lost. Let's go take it out, huh?"

oOoOoOo

Pain.

Percy screamed.

He wondered if it was possible to die from screaming.

He wondered if he would die screaming, or if his voice would give out first.

It was hard to breathe. His vision was graying out.

He kept screaming – and then the curse lifted.

He screamed a few seconds longer, because the pain took too long to stop, because the nerves in his body were fried. And then the pain finally began to recede and he could stop screaming.

"See?" he heard Voldemort say. "I knew he was the right choice. He fights so hard because he has so much to protect."

Voldemort stepped back, and then suddenly there were hands on him. Percy tried to jerk away, but couldn't quite manage it. He was propped up against the wall. It let him see his legs twitch and jerk. The after effects of the cruciatus.

Voldemort dropped in front of him, and Percy recoiled for a moment because –

Because for a second, it seemed like Voldemort was covered in twisting, violent colors – like an abstract paining, all red and black and green.

But then the colors were gone and Percy was left blinking in fear and confusion. Was he going mad? Was he going to lose his wits?

Was he going to end up like the Longbottoms?

Voldemort smiled and then withdrew. "Severus, the veritaserum."

Percy started in fear. He couldn't help it. He could hope to hold out against a Cruciatus curse, but veritaserum? There was no hope for it.

A Death Eater approached him, and Percy tried to jerk away. He tried to escape, but then there were more hands on him, holding him still, and suddenly the colors were back in his vision. The Death Eater uniforms were no longer black, but they were a twisted, writhing mass of blood-red fire. And the men in the robes had charred black souls shot through with the yellow of fear.

Percy gave a hoarse shout because the colors were too much – they were too overwhelming – but then hands were on his face and… and the man in front of him had a verdant green soul.

"Green," Percy whispered, inanely, and then a vial was being forced into his mouth and suddenly the green was gone, and Severus Snape was in front of him.

Percy tried to struggle, just once, but then the potion was on his tongue. The taste was familiar – the bitter-sweet taste of the truth. Percy knew the taste of veritaserum, having sworn several oaths of office. He wasn't expecting the potion to sour on his tongue – but that's what it did. It left him grimacing, and then it left him surprised.

This wasn't veritaserum. Or rather, it wasn't _just_ veritaserum.

Percy blinked a couple of times, integrating this new piece of information. Snape stepped back and Voldemort took his place.

"Names," said Voldemort. "Tell me the names of everyone in the Civis Arma."

The answers rose up in Percy's mouth. _Me_ , he wanted to say. _And you just killed the leader, John Kelley, there he is – one of the four that you killed_.

Percy clamped his mouth shut, and surprisingly, it stayed shut.

"Tell me who you believe is in the Civis Arma," Voldemort amended.

Percy kept his mouth shut.

Voldemort's eyes seemed to flash, and suddenly Percy saw those colors again, and this time, he knew what they meant. Greasy black hatred. Yellow-green evil. Blood-red anger.

The colors married together, twisted and twirled together, and then they sparked brilliantly as Voldemort whirled on Snape. "Crucio!"

OoOoOoOoO

Ginny ran along side the civilians, wand out, waiting for trouble. She followed them up the stairwell from the tenth floor, into the atrium, and then towards the row of fireplaces. The flames were already lit – the destination set to the Auror Academy.

Ginny broke off from the group and stood guard with the two Aurors as the civilians pushed and shoved their way through the fireplace.

The ding of the only working lift was all the warning she got. Four Death Eaters emerged from the elevator, spells flying. The civilians screamed and panicked.

Ginny ran forward to meet them.

OoOoOoOoOo

They couldn't get to the seventh floor. Bill didn't understand it. It was just one floor above the atrium, but the stairway was completely walled off with something impenetrable. He'd tried all of his curse-breaking spells, and hadn't even made a dent in it.

If there had been more time, Bill could have studied the ward and figured out something. But they didn't have time. People were in danger and time meant lives.

Helen took them up the private stairwell – the one that went straight from the atrium to the Minister's office on the first floor.

And then they started working their way down.

They ran into the other strike teams on the third floor and combined forces and finally they began making real progress.

OoOoOoOoO

"It's pure, my lord, I swear!"

Percy sat huddled against the wall, gratefully forgotten as the Dark Lord tortured Severus Snape.

"Why isn't he talking?" Voldemort demanded.

"I don't know!" Snape pleaded. "But the potion is pure. I swear. Test it yourself and see!"

His form flared green again, and Percy tried to blink the color away. _Aura_ , his mind supplied helpfully. The colors were auras. Trelawny had said that he should be able to see them.

A Death Eater was brought forward, a young man, hardly out of school. He was forced to his knees, and the veritaserum forced down his throat, and he suddenly started babbling – he was only a Death Eater because all of his friends were Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord terrified him, and there was actually this girl he liked, and she was really pretty, but she was a Muggle-born and –

The Avada flashed – the same yellow-green tone as the evil in Voldemort's soul. The Death Eater fell, and his soul colors – a little blue, a little red, a lot of yellow – went dark.

Percy blinked again, trying to push the auras away. They were distracting.

Voldemort turned to him. His chest was heaving with angry breaths and the blood-red in his aura flared so viciously that Percy couldn't help but flinch back.

"Tell me who is in the Civis Arma!" Voldemort demanded.

And the answers were there, on Percy's tongue, and he knew that if he opened his mouth the truth would spill out, like rain from a storm cloud. But he didn't want to answer Voldemort, so he clenched his jaw together and pressed his lips closed.

"Crucio!"

Percy was rocked back with the force of the curse. He slipped down the wall, unable to keep himself propped against it. He ground his teeth together, still not trusting the truth from spitting out, but then he couldn't keep the scream back anymore, so he screamed.

And then he was so busy screaming that he couldn't even thinking about speaking. The names were safe, as long as he screamed.

So he screamed.

He screamed over every name the potion wanted him to tell, including his own name. He screamed over every secret he had the Voldemort could use.

And he kept screaming.

OoOoOoOoO

Bill and Charlie reached the sixth floor – where Rudy had told them he'd last seen Percy. There was no sign of Percy, but there were Death Eaters. Too many Death Eaters.

Bill ducked behind a wall, grimacing as all of his curses got him no-where. He absently flexed his left hand. His arm had taken damage. It throbbed uncomfortably. He wiped the blood that dripped down his hand onto his trousers.

Charlie called out a few spells and then joined him, similarly stymied and similarly scuffed. He'd taken a wind charm to the chest and been knocked back over a desk. He had a few impressive scrapes and bruises, but they were both mobile and still at the top of their game.

"Hodgemon's offense, you think?" Charlie asked.

Bill was a little thrown by the Quidditch term, but then realized what Charlie was proposing. He shook his head. It wouldn't work. "Letterman's attempt," he countered.

"Hardly," Charlie said.

A barrage of curses hit the wall they were leaning against and the wall gave an alarming sort of crack.

As one, Bill and Charlie both darted out, sent out their own flurry of spells, and then ducked back down.

"Hodgemon's," Charlie said again.

"As if!"

Bill and Charlie both looked over. Helen Adams was crouched in the hallway opposite to them. Fred and George were behind her. Fred still looked a little pale, but he was upright and mobile again. Helen had done a top-rate job patching him up.

"Harry and Ron are coming in from the left," Helen said. "We are obviously pulling a Ferrara maneuver."

Bill considered that, and then nodded. "That could work."

"That's going to be brilliant," Charlie countered. He glanced over at Bill, his eyes bright. Charlie was always the most excited before something truly dangerous. "You ready?"

Bill opened his mouth to say yes, but then something twisted in his stomach. A dark and foreboding thought in the back of his head said something bad could happen. He paused for a moment.

Charlie grabbed his shoulder. "Percy could be down there."

Percy. Percy, their little brother who could be so smart, but also so stupid. Percy who tried so hard to fit in, he became awkward with his attempts. Percy who tried so hard to keep up with Bill and Charlie in friends and sports, but couldn't quite manage it. Percy who finally found success in his studies and then at work, and surpassed all of his brothers, but was so hungry for validation that he couldn't let anyone forget how successful he was until everyone was sick of hearing about it.

Percy who could be in trouble right now.

Bill sighed. "Okay."

He barely heard the countdown that Helen provided. He gripped his wand, sent up a quick prayer, and then they were moving in tandem. Bill and Charlie sent out of the first volley of curses, and then Helen and George provided the shielding. And then, when the Death Eaters were focused on them, Harry and Ron snuck around from the left and came at them hard and fast.

The Death Eaters fell back, caught unawares. They retreated down the hall, their movements chaotic and frantic. Bill moved forward with the others, pressing the advantage.

The stairwell door was ahead. They could get to the seventh floor.

Bill didn't know what had him glance behind.

Maybe it was that same dark feeling in his stomach, maybe it was a flash of something reflected off the wall, or maybe it was just the feeling that this was going too smoothly.

But he glanced behind them for one second and caught a glimpse of a black robe.

"Behind us!" he shouted, whirling all the way around, but he was too late.

The Death Eaters had caught them in a pincer move.

The yellow-green light of the Avada Kedavra curse filled the hall.

It flashed inches away from Bill.

It hit Charlie, still turning to meet the new threat.

Charlie dropped.

And Bill, not thinking, no longer present, grabbed his younger brother, not quite grasping what had happened.

There was shouting around them. Helen had stepped in front of Bill. She was expertly dueling the Death Eaters back. Harry and Ron were still keeping the first set of Death Eaters at bay.

"Into the office!" Helen demanded.

George and Fred pushed Bill back. A door was opened. Bill staggered backwards, into the empty office, still holding Charlie's body. The others ran in. The door was slammed shut. Helen stood guard, Harry taking position beside her.

Bill dropped onto the ground, Charlie's body cradled in his grasp. He looked up at his brothers – Ron, Fred, and George – their faces pale and shocked.

Bill looked back down at Charlie. His eyes were open, staring at nothing, his expression lax. Bill reached out, a strange urge to shake him awake – to scold him for playing a joke on them – because he couldn't be dead. Not Charlie.

 _He's gone_ , a voice said in his head. _He's gone, and you're in trouble. Think, Bill. There will be time for crying later_.

It sounded, oddly, like Draco's voice.

So Bill sucked in a breath and instead of patting Charlie's face, he gently closed his eyes. He looked back up at his brothers. "We need to get out of here."

OoOoOoOoO

Pain.

Percy screamed.

Colors and darkness flared in his vision, creating an impromptu fireworks display in his head. The colors were too bright and the darkness too encompassing.

He kept screaming and then finally realized that the pain had stopped.

The curse had been lifted. How long had it been stopped for? Seconds? Minutes?

Longer?

Percy caught his breath on a sob. He wanted to curl up, to shield himself from any more pain, but the movement only sent flares of heat up and down his body. He went still, but the marble was hard beneath his body. His overworked nerves told him he was lying on ice and it was bruising his skin.

"I can make the pain stop, Percy," came Voldemort's voice out of the blackness.

Percy tried to open his eyes, but the darkness remained, stubborn and unrelenting.

"I can make it stop if you tell me the names of those in the Civis Arma," Voldemort said. "An Avada curse, Percy. Quick, painless, and then nothing."

Percy choked back another sob. Merlin, he wanted it. He wanted to die.

There was the sense of movement around him. A hand touched his face, and then his neck. The touch was soft but it still caused a flare of fire on his skin. Percy tried not to scream because his throat was raw. He choked instead. Something hot flecked in his mouth. The taste of copper dripped over his tongue.

Blood.

Was his throat finally bleeding?

"He's half-dead, my lord," said the owner of the hands.

Percy tried to blink open his eyes and only saw green. Lush, steady green.

Green.

Severus Snape.

"He can't tell you anything in this condition."

"Is that so, Severus?" the Dark Lord purred.

There was the feeling of motion again. The soft brush of air that came with the flutter of a long robe.

Percy really wished he could open his eyes. The green figure was rising to his feet and falling back a few steps. The black, red, and yellow-green figure was advancing on him.

"Tell me, Severus, do you have another vial of veritaserum on you?" Voldemort asked.

"Yes, of course, my lord."

There was the sound of rustling robes. Percy blinked again, and shadowy forms appeared. He could see Severus Snape retrieve a vial from his robes and present it to Voldemort, but the sight was dim and slightly blurry. The colors were muted. It looked like a photo in a newspaper – a black and white image, slightly grainy, the movements ever-so-slightly stilted.

"Here, my lord."

Voldemort drew up to his fullest height. He leered down at the Potion's Professor. "Take it yourself, Severus."

"My lord?"

Percy knew that Snape must be acting. The veritaserum he had given Percy had been tainted, meaning that Snape was not a loyal member of the Death Eaters, but he sounded so surprised, so caught off guard, that Percy wouldn't have known he was acting without having proof.

"Take the veritaserum," Voldemort said. "And then tell me if the potion is pure."

Snape nodded. "Of course, my lord."

And again, he said it so sincerely, that Percy thought he was actually going to take the potion. And he uncorked the vial, put it to his lips, and then his hand was plunging into his robe pocket and he vanished.

 _Portkey_ , Percy thought, and then all thought vanished when Voldemort screamed in rage.

Fear. Fear spiked in Percy – and he could see it in the Death Eaters around him. They ducked and scurried as far back as they could, and alarm yellow flared up from their bodies.

And then Voldemort whirled towards Percy. "Crucio!"

The curse was inflicted with all of the rage and frustration and ire that Voldemort felt.

And Percy couldn't even draw breath to scream.

OoOoOoOoO

Ginny was hit by a ricocheting spell. It had once been a slicing hex, but she'd ducked behind a fallen pile of rubble. It bounced off the wall behind her, hit with a faint prickle of discomfort, and then she was up again and moving.

The Death Eaters had been sporadically trying to re-take the atrium for the past two hours. They were mostly unsuccessful.

Ginny couldn't help but think that this was a ploy, that they were sending just enough Death Eaters to take all of their attention away from what was happening further in the Ministry building. It made her nervous. It made her scared.

By all accounts, the self-destruct should have been activated by now.

If Voldemort got the Ministry…

If no one else was able to escape…

If Percy was still somewhere in the building…

She took all of her fear and turned it into anger. And that she turned into a blasting hex.

She took out both Death Eaters with the curse, strode over, and stunned them both, just to be sure they were out. Then she cast the incarcerous spell and took a moment to catch her breath.

The atrium was mostly empty. Only a few last remaining civilians were waiting to be Flooed out of the Ministry. Finn was standing with them – or rather, braced against the wall as he attempted to guard them. He'd taken spell-damage and couldn't quite stand on his own. Petrov had been injured as well, and had to be Flooed to St. Mungos.

They were down to one fireplace. The Death Eaters had been sure to target the fireplaces when they attacked.

There was a commotion by the side stairwell. Ginny glanced over, fingers tensing around her wand, but then she saw the red-robes of the Aurors. There were two of them, one leaning heavily on the other. Ginny recognized the injured Auror.

"Rudy!"

She ran forward and helped prop him up on the other side. He turned his head towards her. His eyes were glazed.

"W…Weasley," he said.

"That's right. Did the hair give it away?" Ginny asked, trying for lightheartedness.

"Others," said Rudy. "Others went…Percy…,"

"What about Percy?" Ginny demanded.

They reached the fireplace. The Auror cut to the front of the line but Ginny put out a hand, halting his exit.

"What about Percy?" she demanded.

"Went to self-destruct," Rudy told her. "Went to…,"

And then his eyes slipped shut. He went limp. The Auror caught him and stepped through the flames. Ginny watched them go, and then glanced around the nearly empty atrium. Only a few Aurors and civilians remained. The evacuation was as complete as it could be but still the Ministry was standing.

Ginny quickly slipped into a small nook in the atrium that housed a statue of the first Minister. She pulled out the necklace she wore underneath her shirt and clasped her hand around the pale pink rose hanging from the fine chain.

She closed her eyes and thought, _help me_.

She opened her eyes. Nothing.

She reclasped her hand and thought harder, louder, _Find me. Help me_.

Still nothing.

Ginny sighed. Perhaps it had been foolish to hope that –

"You do not appear to be in any distress, Miss Weasley."

Ginny turned. Lucius Malfoy stood behind her, dressed in blue and gray robes. His long hair was brushed and gleaming. He carried a serpent-headed cane in hand.

Ginny hadn't seen him, not in four years since he had rescued her from Claire. She knew that he had been spotted in different areas around England. She knew that no one quite knew what he was. He wasn't a ghost. But he wasn't alive, either.

"My brother is in trouble," she said.

Lucius looked irked. "I'm not the Aurors, Miss Weasley. And don't you think you have enough brothers? If you need a rescue mission-,"

"Percy," Ginny interrupted. "Assistant to the Minister. He was trying to set off the self-destruct in the Ministry."

Lucius tipped his head ever-so-slightly to the side. "Ah. That brother. The useful one. That does change things." He looked at her, considering. "You'll owe me a favor."

"Of course," Ginny said, quickly, easily.

Lucius smiled, somewhat mercenary, but then he nodded. "We have a deal, Miss Weasley."

And then he vanished. Ginny let out a breath. She knew that she might have just made a deal with the closest approximation to the devil, but all she felt was relief.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Bill slammed the door shut again. He threw up some rather illegal shielding charms.

He dropped back on the floor, those few moments of furious spell-casting leaving him exhausted. There were dozens of Death Eaters outside the door. He didn't know how they were getting out of this one.

Charlie's body lay beside the wall. His jacket was draped over his face. Fred sat beside Charlie's body, his face pale from blood loss. His injury had re-opened.

Bill took a few minutes to catch his breath and to think. He wasn't losing another brother today.

OoOoOoOoO

Pain.

Percy was sure there was pain, but it was different somehow. His head felt foggy. It felt like he was floating.

Floating in fire, but it was too dark for there to be fire.

He was surrounded by blackness.

The pain stopped. Percy hardly twitched.

"Tell me the names," a voice demanded, shooting through the blackness with a flash of blood-red anger.

"Names," Percy repeated, his voice cracked and hoarse. What names?

There were hands on him. They hauled him upright. Percy couldn't stand, couldn't get his feet under him. He was surrounded by angry-red and scared-yellow souls.

"I will enjoy killing you," the voice said.

Percy's brain turned over, processing. Voldemort. That was Voldemort. And these were Death Eaters.

And he was seeing auras now.

And… and he couldn't see anything else. Apart from the colors, there was only dark.

Black.

Nothing.

"But first, you will tell me what you know!" Voldemort thundered.

Percy could see his Voldemort's aura move, could see the outline of him. He was pulling his arm back, ready to strike, and then there was a splash of gray that appeared in the midst of the red and yellow.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting," drawled the newcomer. His tone was all condescension and insolence.

The red-anger in Voldemort sparked. "Lucius!"

"Hello, Tom," said the gray figure that was Lucius Malfoy.

Percy could see the silhouette of Voldemort bristling and rounding on Malfoy. "I thought I had killed you," Voldemort hissed.

"I killed myself, you pretionious arse," Lucius snapped, his voice irritated and testy.

"Then why are you here?" Voldemort demanded.

"I told you," Lucius said. "I told that I'd simply refuse to die. You didn't listen to me. You rarely do. In fact, I remember telling you, back when you wanted to take the Ministry, that the very best thing to do was lie low and pretend that you didn't exist. And then, once everyone was lured into a false sense of complacency, you could make your move. But you didn't wait. Now look at the mess you've gotten yourself into."

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort bellowed.

Percy could see the green light of the cruse. He saw it hit the gray form and then pass through, as if the gray form was nothing more than smoke. The curse hit the Death Eater behind Lucius. The Death Eater dropped. Lucius remained standing.

"That doesn't work on my anymore," said Lucius.

Percy was dropped to the floor. There were cries of 'demon' and 'ghost' and 'impossible'. He could see the forms of the Death Eaters draw their wands, but they waited. They waited for Voldemort.

"The Ministry has been evacuated. It won't be long until the Aurors re-form and strike a counter-offensive," said Lucius. "You can hold them off, to be sure, but it will be costly. How badly do you want this Ministry?"

"It is mine!" Voldemort declared, enraged.

Lucius shrugged. "Have it your way, if you must."

The gray form stepped around Voldemort and then towards Percy. Percy blinked as the form knelt down. Hands brushed across his face. Percy knew that Lucius should be ghost-like. He was dead after all, but the hands were warm. The fingers gentle.

"I think you've killed him," said Lucius.

"He'll live to tell his secrets," Voldemort promised, his aura twisting into colors truly repulsive.

But Lucius was gray. Gray must be better than black, red, and yellow-green, so Percy reached up, grabbed onto silk robes, and pulled Lucius closer.

"Kill me," he whispered, voice barely more than a breath of air.

"Don't be so dramatic," said Lucius, and then something was secreted into his hand.

That was his wand. He knew it immediately.

"You know what to do," said Lucius. "Your eleven o'clock. About two meters off the floor."

Lucius was referring to the grand clock that hung on the wall. For all of its gilded gold and sparkling gems, it looked benign, harmless, but it housed the self-destruct to the Ministry. Percy wondered how Lucius knew that secret. Then again, Voldemort had discovered that secret as well, so perhaps he shouldn't be too surprised. Percy tucked the wand in his robe sleeve.

Lucius got up and walked away from Percy and towards the left, drawing the attention of Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

"You know, you could have used veritaserum on him, if you actually wanted him to tell you something," Lucius told Voldemort.

Lucius couldn't have known that Voldemort had done just that. He was obviously just trying to bait the Dark Lord and had stumbled upon a fresh wound. Voldemort snarled in rage, and lunged at Lucius. He passed right through the gray form – and that was Percy's cue.

He pointed his wand, hoping for eleven o'clock and two meters off the floor. He shouted out of a hoarse and broken throat, "Morituri te salutamus."

He could tell the spell hit because there was an explosion so bright it pierced the black that had been surrounding his vision. The entire building shook, and then the screeching banshee alarm started, earsplitting in its volume and pitch.

Above the screeching, he could hear the Death Eaters shouting and cursing. Alarm-yellow spiked out of their souls.

Voldemort flared red-angry. His shout of rage seemed to shake the floor, and Percy could see his form, could see him level his wand in his direction. Voldemort shouted a curse – a vicious red-looking curse – but then a gray form slipped in front of him. The spell was deflected.

Voldemort bellowed his rage again, but then a Death Eater caught his sleeve. "Please, my lord, we must go!"

"I'll kill you, Lucius!" Voldemort thundered, and then he disappeared with a crack of lightning.

The Death Eaters pooled together in groups. Their black and yellow souls were whisked away by portkey.

OoOoOoOoO

The banshee alarm was so sudden that Bill jumped. He wasn't the only one.

For a brief second, he believed there was an actual banshee in the room with them, but then he realized what the alarm actually meant.

"The self-destruct!" Harry said.

"The Death Eaters will be leaving," Helen said. She stepped to the door, wand out. "We'll have to be fast."

Bill nodded. "You and I will take the lead. Fred, Harry, you're behind us." He turned to George and Ron. They nodded, not needing words to know what they would do.

They would carry Charlie out.

OoOoOoO

Percy slumped on the floor. There were no Death Eaters any more. Just the screeching of the alarm.

And darkness.

The gray form moved throughout the black to kneel beside him. "You only have a few minutes to escape."

Percy nodded against the marble. It was cold against his forehead, a relief from the fire that seemed to override his body.

"You do need to get out of the building," Lucius remarked.

Percy pulled in a breath. "I can't see."

"So I have realized," said Lucius. "I find it hard to believe, however, that you'd let a trivial thing like that do you in."

Percy swore at him, as loudly as possible with his screamed-out voice. But he pushed himself up. His legs threatened to buckle.

A hand caught his arm. Percy let Lucius Malfoy stabilize him as his body trembled. Sweat broke out over his body.

"I don't," he started, and then stopped and had to think. He struggled to orient himself. "Where are the stairs?"

"To your right," said Lucius.

Percy began moving, slowly. The building shook again and Percy was knocked to the floor. He caught himself on his hands and knees and the impact made him cry out in pain.

"As much as I'd love to make a habit of rescuing Weasley's in distress, I've overtaxed my powers for now," said Lucius.

Percy turned his head. The gray figure was flickering in and out.

"You'll have to do all the heavy lifting, I'm afraid," Lucius said.

"You've made my life very difficult," Percy told him, and then pushed himself to his feet again. His stomach churned. He staggered over in the direction he hoped the wall was, ended up hitting it with his shoulder, and then vomited over the floor.

"No doubt," said Lucius pleasantly.

Percy spat and then wiped his mouth on his robe sleeve. He tried to avoid the puddle of vomit and was stupidly pleased when he was actually successful. He moved again towards the stairs.

"About twenty more steps, straight ahead," said Lucius.

Percy counted out the steps. The screeching alarm intensified. He fumbled for the door to the stairwell.

"Down and to your left," said Lucius, directing him to the door handle. "And I believe you're on your own now. Best wishes, Mr. Weasley."

Percy looked over just as the gray form flickered out completely and did not reappear. But he found the door handle and pushed the door open. If he remembered correctly, the emergency portkey that was stationed on every floor for medical emergencies would be on the left wall.

The building shook again. He had only seconds left. He began feeling his way carefully along the wall. His fingers hit the glass case inserted into the wall. He pulled the case open and fumbled inside for the emergency portkey. His fingers hit it. Something lurched him backwards, and the portkey was too much for him to handle. His mind faded out.

The world went blacker than before.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Quick Note: Well – that whole process took longer than expected. And there are still things to find out – such as, why didn't Percy go to Charlie's funeral? And why do the Weasley's think that Percy killed Charlie. So I think the next chapter will finish this bit up, and then we'll be back at Draco and his memories. Sorry for the long detour.

Also – ugh! Charlie! Why did I kill you? I mean, I know why, but you were really cool! Never let it be said that author's regret nothing...


	10. The Aftermath: Part I

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Or any of the rest of the characters for that matter…

Author's Note: Late. Late late late.

OoOoOoOoO

 **One year ago…**

Percy ached.

He didn't know how he still ached when he'd been given three different pain relieving potions and two anti-inflammatories, but he did.

The Healer had said he'd be sore for a while. She'd said that he'd been lucky, that if he'd been held any longer under the Cruciatus, he would have suffered permanent muscle damage. As it was, he'd been given two muscle re-knitters and two muscle relaxants to help his torn and strained ligaments. His entire body felt like a wet dishrag, limp and wrung out.

His mind was active though. More than active. It was spinning and racing and he almost regretted not taking the sedative he'd been offered.

But he'd already been asleep for eight hours. In that space of time, Percy had been assigned a protection detail, moved to Greenfriar Town Hospital, and been put through an array of scans.

In that time, the country was still panicking.

Percy had thought he'd be able to do something. Even with his eyesight still gone, he'd be able to do _something_. He could have reports read to him with a reading charm, or use a dict-a-quill to send messages. He'd already spoke briefly to Kingsley and the remaining cabinet members, via magic mirror. He'd given them his report, he'd told them about Voldemort, and the self-destruct, and the officials already dead, but he couldn't see their reactions to know what they made of it. To know what they made of him. Had he done enough? Should he have tried something different?

Kingsley had simply told him to rest, had told him to sleep and recover, but Percy needed some sort of distraction. All he had was the radio. It kept playing the same news over and over again, with very little variation, because very little was happening now that the initial attack was over.

Percy reached to the side, where he knew a glass of water was sitting. His fingers hit the side of the table. He moved them up to the surface, fumbled for the glass of water, and clasped his fingers around it. He lifted and felt his arm shake with effort. The glass slipped from his hand. It shattered on the floor – Percy knew that because he could hear the sound of breaking glass. And he could also hear the sound of the door being flung open, and then he could see a burst of orange-yellow. The Auror on guard duty had rushed in, alarm rising up in his aura.

"Just dropped a glass," Percy said, his voice gravelly and cracked in a way it never was before. That was because he'd nearly torn his vocal chords by screaming.

"Not a problem, sir," the Auror said.

Percy dropped back against the pillows as the Auror whisked up his mess. Through the open door he could hear the bustle of an overtaxed hospital. Alarms blared. Voices called out – insistent and demanding. Someone was crying down the hall, deep, wrenching sobs.

St. Mungo's had been overwhelmed by the casualties, Percy knew that much. The wounded had been shipped to every hospital around the country and even then, the wizarding hospital system would be close to overtaxed. Greenfriar was the site of the Minister's vacation home and the secondary Ministry-site. Other officials would have been sent here, not just Percy.

"Here you go, sir." The Auror handed him a fresh glass of water, wrapping Percy's hand around it. Percy could feel his hand still shake as he raised it to his lips. He took a few desperate gulps. The water felt good sliding down his throat but then it pooled in his stomach, feeling cold and heavy.

Percy felt sweat break out over his brow. He hurriedly handed the glass back and the Auror placed it back on the table.

"Should I get a Healer?"

Percy shook his head. "No. Just… just tired."

He could see the silhouette of the Auror nod. "I'll be right outside, sir."

The Auror left, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of the hospital were muffled once more. Percy dropped back against the pillows, listened to the drone of the radio, and tried to sleep.

He may have nodded off for a few minutes, or at the very least, closed his eyes, because the next thing he was aware of was the sound of the door opening.

"Percy? It's Henry James."

Percy blinked a couple of times, his body automatically trying to see, stupidly forgetting that his eyes didn't work right now. The Ministry's private Healer was nothing more than a blue and green figure in the blackness.

"Healer James," said Percy, trying to push himself up. His left arm gave out, making him slump awkwardly.

The Healer was immediately by his side, plumping up several pillows behind him while surreptitiously casting several diagnostic charms. Percy was always impressed at the Healer's ability to multitask.

"How is everyone?" Percy asked, once the Healer stepped back. "What's the…," he paused, trying to find a way to phrase it delicately, and then gave up and settled for blunt, "How many dead?"

"While I admire your work ethic, now is not the time to read you casualty reports," said James. "You've been through enough of a crisis. You need to focus on healing."

Percy wanted to protest, but he knew that nothing would sway the Healer when he used that sort of voice. He sighed instead. "Well, what's the verdict on me, then?"

"Your muscles are healing nicely. Heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels are within normal range. You'll be taking anti-inflammatories, muscle re-knitters, and muscle relaxants for the next two weeks, but give a couple more days of bed rest, and your body should be well on the way to recovery."

Percy decided not to object to bed-rest, and instead focused on what the Healer didn't say. "What about my vision?"

James leaned in and waved something in front of his face. Percy couldn't see what it was, but he did see the Healer's hand, a mix of aqua and cerulean, dart back and forth in front of him.

"You appear to be tracking movement, but your pupils aren't responsive to light," said James. "And you aren't focusing on anything, are you?"

Percy sighed. "Has anyone told you that you have a very aquatic soul?"

James paused. Percy wondered what the pause meant. Usually he was good at reading body language and facial expressions. Now there was nothing, just a faint stirring of something orange and pink. Percy didn't know what those colors meant.

"Being an aura-reader wasn't in your medical file," James said, voice neutral.

"It's a… recently discovered talent," Percy said. "But I'd really like to get back to actually seeing things again, and not just random colors. I'm assuming there's some unpleasant medical procedure for that?"

There was another beat of silence. More colors changed in James' aura. A blue-gray color welled up in the center of James' chest. It was a sad, dreary sort of color. If Percy had to assign an emotion to it, he'd say it looked like grief.

"Oh," said Percy, recognizing what James was able to tell him. The world seemed to twist beneath him.

"I'm so sorry, Percy," James said. "The Cruciatus caused swelling and bleeding in your brain. Had you been held under any longer, it's likely you would have suffered a stroke or a brain hemorrhage. As it is, however, the occipital cortex in your brain was damaged. Although your eyes weren't injured, your brain lacks the ability to process what your eyes are seeing."

Percy swallowed hard. "And there's nothing that can be done?"

James reached out and grabbed his arm. He squeezed lightly. "I've sent for a specialist to fit you for a vision aid. They'll look just like a pair of glasses – maybe a little thicker than your usual prescription – but you'll be able to see with them. Maybe not perfectly, but pretty damn close."

It wasn't what Percy wanted to hear, but he forced himself to nod. "Of course. Thank you, Healer James."

The blue-gray spread even further, like water, like an entire ocean. Percy glanced away, not wanting to see the other man's sympathy, not when he was so caught up in his own pain.

"Can I call someone for you, Percy?" the Healer asked. "A friend? A family member?"

Percy thought once of his mother. And then he thought of Charlie. Charlie would come, if Percy asked. He opened his mouth, but couldn't quite get the name out. He shook his head instead.

"No. I… I think I'd just like to be alone for a while."

He glanced over enough to see the Healer nod. "Get some rest, Assistant."

The Healer left the room. Percy closed his eyes, noticing no difference in the blackness when his eyes were shut, and felt hot tears fall down his face.

 **Present day…**

Pansy didn't know what to do.

She'd found the memory she was looking for, but it was completely different than what she had expected. She had been looking for the memory that the Weasley family was sure existed. She was looking for the memory of Percy hiding during the battle, of being a coward. She was looking for proof that as Charlie was fighting to save Percy's life, Percy was being the sniveling, self-serving rat that his entire family believed he was.

She had wanted to find evidence of his cowardice. She had wanted to find it, drag it out, and then broadcast that memory to the world. She had wanted to proclaim, "Here is the reason Charlie is dead!" and then feel some relief from the never-ending grief that flowed through her.

But she hadn't found that memory. Instead she had discovered that Percy Weasley was brave. Percy Weasley was self-sacrificing. Percy Weasley was a hero.

And so Pansy found no relief. Instead, there was only guilt for what she had done.

Pansy got up, intend on getting her glass of wine from the kitchen, but the mess on the floor stopped her short. The china cabinet was knocked over – the dishes saved by an unbreakable charm – unlike Percy's wine glass. The guilt compelled her to whisk away the mess and right the china cabinet. And then she found a small first aid kit in the bathroom and returned to the living room.

Percy was still passed out on the floor, half crumpled and half folded in on himself. She levitated him to the couch and then settled down at his feet. She pulled off his sock and carefully pulled the piece of glass from the arch of his foot. He had surprisingly nice feet. Not like Charlie. Charlie had horrible feet. Tough calluses on his soles. A few blisters from his heavy work boots. Toenails that were never trimmed evenly. Bits of dirt that never quite washed away. Percy's feet, however, were clean, slender, and well-shaped. She placed a medicated bandage on the cut, and then she was stuck with nothing to do.

And she still felt guilty.

She was unaccustomed to the emotion and she didn't like it. She hated feeling it. She glared at the unconscious form on the couch and felt it turn into anger instead. What, in the name of Merlin, had Percy Weasley been thinking, inviting her to his house? If he was so smart, why did he let her in? He knew she was a dangerous woman. He knew she must have been a threat to him.

And why didn't he just go to Charlie's funeral instead of accepting that damned award?

And why didn't he tell anyone what had happened at the Ministry? Why didn't he tell his parents? Why didn't the media know that the Assistant Minister had been tortured by Voldemort? Why had the Ministry reported that he'd suffered only minor injuries in the battle?

Well, she could guess at the last few questions. The Ministry wouldn't want the general public to know that Voldemort had been in the Ministry itself, and that he had somehow learned and targeted the officials who could activate the self-destruct. That would have made the entire country feel threatened and vulnerable.

But why hadn't he told his family at least? Why didn't they know that he was…

Blind.

Percy Weasley was _blind_.

He'd been blinded in the battle and no one even knew about it.

Her anger spiked again. Why the hell wouldn't he have told his family?

She jostled his leg. "Wake up."

Nothing.

She reached over and shook his shoulder. "Percy Weasley, wake up."

Nothing.

She sighed, pointed her wand, and said, "Navitus."

Percy woke with a start. One moment he was prone on the couch, the next he had jerked up, gasping in fear. His eyes were wild behind his glasses. He saw her, lurched back, and tried to roll off the couch, but his actions were clumsy and disjointed. He was still half-sedated from the drugged wine.

She sighed and grabbed his arms to keep him from tipping off of the couch. In hindsight, it wasn't the best move because it made him struggle harder. He grunted a little, tried to pull back, tried to squirm away.

"Calm down!" Pansy snapped.

He didn't listen, just pushed at her harder, but Pansy knew how to pin a struggling man to a sofa. She straddled him and caught his arms between her legs.

Percy froze. Pansy could feel the tension thrum throughout his body. She watched his eyes stare up at her behind his thick glasses. He was getting faint lines by his eyes. His job was aging him.

"Are you calmed down?" she asked.

She watched Percy lick his lips and felt him tremble a little bit. "What do you want?" he asked.

There was a lot Pansy wanted. She wanted Charlie back, first and foremost, but that wasn't going to happen, so instead she wanted someone to punish for his death. She had thought she had that in Percy. At least until a couple minutes ago.

"Why didn't you go to Charlie's funeral?" she asked.

Percy blinked at her. His brow knit. "I don't understand."

She leaned in, reached out towards his face, and saw the flash of fear when her fingers grasped his glasses.

"Don't-," he said, bucking up underneath her. He wasn't able to find any leverage.

She pulled the glasses off his face and watched how his eyes lost focus and skipped about the room. The dull blue irises turned to her, and she realized that perhaps 'dull' was the wrong descriptor. His eyes weren't a true blue. They were more of a blue-gray, like the ocean on a cloudy day. She wondered, briefly, what he was seeing in her aura right now.

She leaned in and pressed her hands to the side of his face, keeping him facing her.

"Why weren't you at Charlie's funeral?" she asked again.

He sighed. He closed his eyes and then started talking.

 **One year ago…**

"How about now?" the eye-specialist asked, handing the glasses back.

Percy couldn't see the glasses, but he could see the specialist's hand – a russet and brown silhouette. The specialist appeared to be made up of an autumnal palette.

It was only a small matter of fumbling to grasp the glasses and then slip them back onto his face. The world suddenly appeared before him. Instead of reds and browns, the specialist was a thin, reedy man with a ruddy complexion and a fondness for purple.

"Clearer?" the specialist asked.

Percy looked around the hospital room. The lines were much clearer, in fact, they were perfectly defined, as opposed to the last try when everything looked out-of-focus. "Much better," he agreed. "It is still dim though. Like the lights are on half-strength."

"The vision aid won't be perfect," the specialist said. "Dim is par for the course. If you're seeing clearly, and if you have good distance vision and close-up vision, then these glasses are working better for you than eighty percent of my clients. We're going to have to call this one a victory."

Percy nodded, but a little reluctantly. Part of him felt guilty that he wasn't more grateful for the specialist's help. The other part of him raged that, instead of just needing glasses to read, now he needed them to see. And not even perfectly at that.

"There are a few side effects you may notice," the specialist said. "Eyestrain is pretty common. Some people need to introduce the glasses slowly, wearing them an hour at a time to get accustomed to the lenses. Try not to wear them more than twelve hours at a time without an hour or so to rest your eyes. One of the most common complaints is headaches, so don't be afraid to take a mild pain reliever when needed."

Percy gave him a dark look. "I have migraines already."

The specialist winced a little. "Definitely talk with your private Healer about medications then. We do usually find that migraine sufferers report more headaches than usual with the glasses."

Percy sighed a little, but forced a pleasant smile on his face. "Thank you for your help."

"Not at all," said the specialist. "We'll meet in a month for a follow-up." He gathered up the various lenses and frames he had brought with him and stood to leave. "And can I just say, you're a real hero, Assistant Minister. I'm sorry that this happened to you."

Percy blinked in surprise, because – _what_?

The specialist nodded and left the hospital room, leaving Percy torn between confusion and depression. The depression won because it was the most pressing. Percy looked about the hospital room, plain, generic, boring, and then pulled the glasses off. The room disappeared. Only blackness remained.

It was terrifying.

Percy slipped the glasses back on. He couldn't stay here anymore. He needed to do something.

He gingerly pushed himself up out of the hospital bed. His body protested. The heavy potions he'd been given yesterday had worn off. His skin felt raw. His nerves felt exposed. He made his way carefully to the small bathroom attached to the hospital room. A hot shower eased the strain in his muscles. He had to wear his glasses in the shower, but the hot water helped him ignore the current distress he felt. There were more pressing things to worry about – like the state of the country. There was no time to curl up in a ball and cry.

He finished showering. He changed out of the hospital gown into a change of clothes he'd had sent over. A quick spell smoothed out his hair, and then he was ready. He strode out of the hospital room.

A new Auror was with him today. Percy recognized him as part of the usual guard at the Ministry, but couldn't quite recall his name. The Auror nodded and then fell in step beside him as Percy headed towards the Healer's station.

The hospital was crowded. There were still patients in the hall. Percy had to side-step around stretchers and around slumbering forms of family members who were keeping loved ones company.

A few of them looked up as Percy walked by. A whispering started, and then someone started clapping.

Percy paused for a moment, wondering who was being clapped at, and then suddenly the hall was full of applause. Percy turned to the Auror, the question on his face. The Auror smiled a little and shrugged. "They're not clapping for me, sir."

"Bless you, Assistant!" one voice called out.

"Thank you, Assistant!" another patient exclaimed.

"Assistant Minister!"

"Merlin bless you!"

Percy felt heat steal over his face. What on earth were they clapping for? He understood shows of patriotism after a national tragedy, but Percy was hardly famous. He was the Assistant. His job was the boring, tedious sort of work that never got reported on in the papers.

"Bless you, Assistant Minister!" a woman called from a stretcher, reaching out her hand.

Percy automatically reached for her hand to shake. He couldn't help but notice that her leg was missing below her knee. A man sat beside her – presumably her husband. He reached out for a handshake as well.

"Thank you, Assistant Minister," he said.

Percy nodded, not quite sure how to respond to the thanks, and then suddenly other patients and family members crowded forwards. Hands reached out for him for him to clasp or shake. His name was called out. People shouted out their gratitude. A few flashes blinked out - photographs.

The Auror stepped out in front of him. "Alright, come on and let the Assistant through, yeah? He's not here for the fun of it."

The Auror began gently pushing the crowd back. A few medi-witches stepped in as well and Percy began edging through the crowd, still shaking hands and nodding, all the way to the Healer's kiosk at the end of the hall.

"Assistant Minister," the Healer on duty said, startled. "You really shouldn't be up."

"I'm checking out," Percy said.

"I really can't advise-,"

"I'll follow up with the Ministry Healers," Percy said. "And I'll sign whatever forms you need me to, but I've a job that needs attending."

There was a little more bluster, a few more faint reproaches, but the papers finally appeared in front of him. Percy signed and then was directed to the Healer's break room that had a private Floo. Percy had to call out both the address to Greenfriar Manor and the password that kept the premise secure. He stepped through the fireplace, the Auror following behind him.

Greenfriar Manor was an old home donated to the Ministry after the last Greenfriar died without an heir. It was not the largest of old wizarding estates, but it was one of the most opulent. And the conditions of the will stated that the home must be kept as authentic as possible. It quickly became the Minister's summer home and private retreat. And it was also the designated secondary Ministry site – not that anyone really thought it'd ever be used as such.

Percy stepped out into Greenfriar's entry hall and immediately noticed the heightened security. Several old suits of armor immediately snapped to attention – the ancient guardians of the estate – and half a dozen Aurors did as well.

"Sir," one Auror said, gesturing him forward to a security desk.

Percy stepped up to the desk and started the tedious process of proving his identity. Not that he believed it was unnecessary. Violetta Gabny had not been herself the other day when she had attacked them, and Percy hadn't noticed anything off until she tried killing them.

His voice patterns were confirmed, a magical anti-concealment charm swept over him, a hair pluck from his head for scanning, and finally he gave his personal password to the security officer.

"Welcome back, sir," the officer said once he'd successfully proven his identity, and ushered him through the security checkpoint.

"Assistant Minister!" Lindsay Peters gasped. She bolted up from her reception desk, her hands flying to her face. "We were told not to expect you until next week!"

She ran forward, and for a moment, Percy was afraid she was going to hug him. She stopped herself, just barely, but she did reach out and clasp his hand.

"It's so good to see you," she said.

"Thank you," said Percy. "Is Gleason in?"

"Upstairs in his office," said Lindsey. "I can call up, and let him know you're coming."

"No, don't," said Percy. "I'd hate to ruin the surprise."

Lindsay paused. "Surprise?" she asked, her voice holding just a little bit of apprehension.

Percy's animosity with the press secretary was well known.

Percy didn't answer her, just headed up to the second floor. The staircase was a large, overly grand affair that split in two directions. Percy followed the right branch of the staircase to what had once been the large drawing room and study but now housed the secretary of the press and his media minions.

Percy paused for a moment in the doorway. Gleason was easy to spot. His voice carried through the entire room. Percy didn't care for Gleason. He was far too dramatic, far too willing to spin a story, and far too conniving for Percy to really trust him. But even Percy had to admit that he made one hell of a press secretary. He had an innate sense for story, and a way of stirring the public to whatever opinion he chose.

Gleason was the only one who could make people clap for Percy.

Gleason was currently in the corner of the room, standing over one of his typists. He was speaking to her but orating to the entire room, his hands waving as he talked, holding everyone captivated to his story.

Everyone except Percy that is.

"Gleason!" Percy snapped out his name as he stepped into the room.

All sound and movement stopped. All occupants turned to Percy. A faint, "Oh, shit" sounded from the other side of the room. Everyone immediately tried to look busy.

Gleason pivoted around to him, a look of irritation on his face. "You're not supposed to be here, Weasley. You need to be in the hospital."

Despite how his words could be construed, there was no concern in them. Just annoyance that Gleason's pawns weren't where he wanted them to be.

Percy stepped further in the room. "Why are people clapping for me?"

Gleason shrugged. "How the hell should I know?"

"I was mobbed at the hospital," said Percy. "There were a great many thank you's, a great many handshakes, and a whole lot of crying going on. Care to explain?"

A pleased smile flitted across Gleason's face. "There were, were there?" he asked.

"People took photos," said Percy.

"Did you look injured enough?"

Percy narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"The public knows that you were gravely injured in the battle at the Ministry," said Gleason. "So, did you have any visible bandages? Any blood?"

"I look as I do now," said Percy. "Is there a reason you want me in costume?"

"To sell the story of course." Gleason strode forward, waved his hand in front of Percy, and let out a sound of discontent. "But now you've mostly likely gone and ruined it."

"Ruined what?" Percy demanded, but Gleason just swept passed him and headed to his desk.

"Your moment of triumph, of course."

Percy spun around to follow him and belatedly realized, as the room spun as well and then didn't stop spinning, that it hadn't been the smartest of moves. He stumbled a little, trying to find his equilibrium in the midst of his vertigo, and then Gleason was back right beside him, grabbing onto his arm.

"Merlin, Weasley," he said, a note of actual concern in his voice.

The room slowly stopped rotating beneath him. Percy blinked a little, and then carefully extracted his arm from Gleason's grip. He stayed upright. Percy let out a breath of relief and watched as Gleason's concern gave way to something more conniving.

"Tell me you looked as pale then as you do now. Because you look even better than gravely injured. You look half-dead, and the papers will buy that photo and spread it in the gossip rags."

Percy glowered. "Just tell me what you did so I can fire you."

Gleason grabbed a paper from one of the many stacks in the office and smacked it into his chest. Percy looked down at the headline. ' _The Ministry Falls'_ was splashed over the front page. There was a photo of a wall of flames shooting up in the atrium while people ran in terror. Some more heroically inclined people ran towards the flames and – was that _Ginny_?

Gleason tapped the page, bringing Percy's attention to the side article. As Press Secretary, Gleason didn't write the articles himself, but he heavily influenced the news that was reported. This headline read ' _Assistant Minister Injured While Saving England_ '. Underneath the headline was a photo of Percy. It was his official photo, the one taken in front of the flag.

Percy skimmed the article. It mentioned nothing of Voldemort. It mentioned nothing of the other dead Ministry officials, the ones who had been targeted and murdered as they tried to hit the self-destruct. It said nothing of the other heroes.

The story itself was ridiculous. It cast Percy in the role of some rugged hero who fought through an entire burning building of Death Eaters in order to initiate the building's failsafe. It was a story more suited to an over-the-top radio program or pulpy-action novel.

"By the wand of Merlin," Percy breathed out in disgust. He looked up at Gleason. "What the hell sort of garbage is this?"

"The people of England are scared, desperate, and mourning. They need a hero."

"They have Potter."

"This wasn't Potter's house that burned down," Gleason countered. "This was the Ministry of Magic and we needed a Ministry hero. We're already playing up the brave men and women of the Auror department – and thank Merlin that the Costace kid is pretty enough to have a rabid fanbase – but we needed our own Potter. You know, glasses, nerdy, the unexpected hero. Men don't feel threatened by you, and women will probably want to take you home and feed you – all very good for the public morale."

Percy stared at Gleason in distaste. "You're fired."

He dropped the paper down on the desk, carefully turned, and left the office. He would have liked to spin on his heel and stride out of the room, but he was learning that sudden motion made for vertigo.

"Only the Minister can fire me!" Gleason called after him.

Percy flipped him a rude gesture, a rather juvenile move, admittedly, and heard a few gasps behind him because, well, Percy was the very definition of mature. Percy headed up to the third floor, passing by several more Aurors who – weirdly enough – saluted him as he walked by.

It just irked Percy even more. Surely others deserved that sort of honor more than he did. What about those who had died? What about those still in the hospital?

And had Percy truly done anything heroic? He'd been captured, tortured, and then needed a rescue by Lucius Malfoy of all people. Percy paused for a moment, and felt something very dark stir in his chest.

"Alright, sir?" an Auror asked him.

Percy glanced over. The Auror couldn't be more than eighteen, a young cherubed face sort of boy. He sighed a little. "For varying definitions of the word," he said.

oOoOoOo

Ron stared at the paper on the table, breakfast was cold and forgotten in front of him. There was a lot of breakfast. Molly was still in the kitchen, cooking.

The paper was entirely focused on the fall of the Ministry and there was an article about Percy on the front page. Everyone had read it. At first it was because they were scared. The paper said 'gravely injured'. What if Percy was dying?

But then it became obvious that Percy was not dying. He was in the hospital in 'stable' condition. And the article was all wrong. The article said that Percy had traveled through the entire Ministry on his own, that he had faced down Death Eaters and basilisks and werewolves, but Ron had done that. Ron and the other Order members had done that, and they hadn't seen Percy.

And Charlie had died. Charlie had died saving Percy, and now the paper was making Percy out to be some hero, someone who had single-handedly saved the Ministry and –

And Percy had always liked to talk about what he was doing. Ron's memories of Percy were always full of his boastings, usually at the dinner table, trying to get attention, things like, "I encouraged the Prefects to change the curfew regulations at Hogwarts. It will be so much more efficient now" and 'I wrote into the NEWTS because their last question on the test could have been answered two different ways, and they agreed I had a point and were going to change it" and "I just got hired as the Junior Assistant to the Minister! Can you believe it? I'm going to be working at the Ministry. With the Minister himself!"

That last one had led to an argument because everyone knew that Fudge was ridiculous, but Percy was so stupidly pleased with himself, he wanted everyone else to be jealous of him.

A small part of Ron related to that. It was hard, being best friends with Harry Potter sometimes. Ron found himself wanting to explain his own triumphs in detail, to get validation. So he couldn't blame Percy for being a prick, but…

But this was taking it too far.

"That's not what happened," said George, dropping his paper onto the table.

"Not at all," Fred agreed, still a little pale and recovering from his injuries.

Ron sighed. What was Percy thinking, lying to the papers?

oOoOoOoOo

Kingsley drummed his fingers on the desk and listened to his cabinet bicker.

His cabinet was smaller than usual. Two members were dead and one was missing. He would either turn up in the hospital, or not turn up at all, meaning his body was still in the Ministry, not able to be recovered for at least six months while the poisons filtered through the building.

Because his cabinet had been halved, Kingsley had invited some members of the Wizengamot to sit in. He didn't know if it had been a mistake or if everyone was past the point of talking rationally. They were bickering like school children, snapping back and forth, and frankly, it was getting irritating.

The door opened quietly and a familiar figure slipped into the room. Kingsley was used to Percy's unobtrusive entrances. Percy seemed to make it his personal challenge to be as unnoticeable as possible, but today Kingsley started and stared. Today, the entire room turned around and took notice of Percy Weasley.

"The hero of the hour!" Judge Whitcomb proclaimed loudly.

"Huzzah!" Finn Trembley called, pumping his fist in the air.

"Well-done, Assistant!" Georgia Hallback said.

Even Florence Greene and Gregor Ives stopped their bickering to applaud.

Percy was visibly startled. He tried to take a step back, but Judge Whitcomb reached out and pulled Percy into the center of the room, vigorously shaking his hand. And that was cue for the other officials to offer their praise and accolades as well, and Kingsley sat back and watched because…

Because Percy didn't look like his usual self. His face was pale. His eyes were squinted in the corners, like he was in pain. He was moving carefully, gingerly. His hands had the slightest of tremors running throughout them.

Percy didn't look as terrible as Kingsley expected him to look – one day after being tortured by Voldemort, but Kingsley had other ways of checking in on Percy's well-being. He waited for the hubbub to die down, and then asked, "Percy, what's your opinion on short-term travel restrictions?"

Percy blinked once, obviously trying to extrapolate what the issue was based on Kingsley's question. That was one of the greatest skills Percy had, extrapolating information from the most meager of sources. But instead of chiming in with an opinion, Percy blinked once more in confusion.

Kingsley frowned. Percy was _not_ well.

The bickering started up again, Florence Greene debating that loved ones needed to see their family members who were injured and Gregor Ives shouting out that security was the most important, and that meant travel restrictions and a curfew.

Percy cleared his throat, cutting through the debate. "The average moderate injury treated in a wizarding hospital takes twenty-four hours. Most hospitals are being faced with over-crowding, but even tacking on extra treatment time, those citizens with moderate injuries will start being sent home this afternoon. It wouldn't make sense to lift the restriction now, not when most of the injured should be sent home in a few hours."

Kingsley nodded, feeling some measure of relief that Percy was still himself, just a little slower on the uptake. Not surprising, all things considered.

"We'll lift the travel ban this evening then," he decided. Ives started arguing, his same old tune of security, but Kingsley raised his hand, cutting him off. "People need to be with their loved ones, and Percy's right. Most of those with minor injuries will be home by then, so the number of those traveling will be cut down."

He waited for any more arguments, but none came.

"There is the matter of the casualty list," said Trembley.

"Take a break," said Kingsley. "It's just about lunch time."

There were a few pauses, a few hesitations, but then the members filtered out the door. Percy remained behind, sitting in one of the chairs in front of Kingsley's desk.

"I can't help but notice that the papers say nothing of Voldemort's presence at the Ministry," he began.

"I can't help but notice that you're here when the Healers said you needed another week," Kingsley countered.

"I got bored," said Percy.

"You were blinded," Kingsley said, bluntly. Percy had signed release of medical information to Kingsley. Kingsley had received the news just after Percy had been informed.

He saw Percy flinch. He watched his fingers rise to the new glasses on his face.

"It's okay to take time," Kingsley said. "I'll send you to the coast, if you want. Hell, I'll send your whole family. How about it? Take a week off. Heal up. Adjust."

"Hardly the time for a vacation," said Percy, looking back up. "And I've always found work to be therapeutic."

"You look like you're going to keel over," Kingsley said. "Has Healer James cleared you?"

Percy winced a little. "Not precisely."

"Have James look you over. If he clears you, fine. But otherwise, you're out of a job until he says, understand?"

Percy nodded.

"Did you tell your folks?" Kingsley asked. "I'm sure they're worried about you."

"I'm sure they read the article," said Percy, somewhat curtly.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. Percy rarely got snippy. He watched Percy close his eyes for a brief second and take in a breath. "I'll send an owl later."

Kingsley knew it was a lie. He didn't comment, just started shuffling the papers to clear a spot on his desk. "We've decided not to reveal that Voldemort was on scene at the Ministry and specifically targeting Ministry officials."

"Because it would incite greater panic," said Percy.

"And because it means we have a mole," said Kingsley.

Percy looked up, startled. "What's our next move?"

"Your next move is to visit Healer James," said Kingsley. "And if he clears you for work, you can do something boring. Like take a nap."

Percy frowned at him. "I am the Assistant Minister," he said.

Kingsley sighed and sat back in the chair. "There are insurance policies need to be looked at and sorted."

The amount of paperwork for the insurance claims was terrifying. Percy, however, smiled a little, like he was comforted at the thought. "I can do insurance."

oOoOoOoOo

Fred and George sat side-by-side together. George leaned in a little towards Fred, their shoulders brushing, because Fred had been injured and George needed the reassurance.

Charlie had been the best sport about all the jokes that Fred and George played. Bill had been a little too old to find it funny. Percy had always been too serious and irritated. Ron was too whiney, and Ginny could get vicious with revenge.

Charlie though –

Charlie always found it funny, even when the jokes were at his expense. And he actually helped them improve their jokes and their inventions.

And now Charlie was dead.

"Not fair," said Fred.

"Not fair," echoed George.

"Not _Charlie_ ," said Fred.

" _Not_ Charlie," agreed George.

"Bill," said Fred, because if it wasn't fair that it was Charlie, then who would be fair?

"Fleur," reminded George.

The twins nodded. It wouldn't have been fair if Bill had died.

"Ginny," offered George.

"Malfoy," said Fred.

"Hmm," they said together, because Malfoy was a threat to be reckoned with, that is, if he ever came back.

"And… _Ginny_ ," they said together. Their little sister. Their only sister. No, not Ginny either.

"Ron?" asked George.

"Poor Ron," said Fred.

"Rough deal," agreed George. Ron was a bit of a pathetic creature. Best friends with Harry and Hermione, who were dating each other. Born with a good brain, but not a lot of common sense.

"Bit _too_ pathetic," said Fred.

George sighed his agreement. Not Ron either.

"Percy," suggested Fred.

"Percy," pondered George.

Percy. Percy, two years older than them, constantly serious, constantly complaining, constantly judging. Percy who started arguments. Percy who was ashamed of being a Weasley. Percy who was arrogant and snobbish and insecure all at once.

"Percy," they said together.

It would have been fairer if it had been Percy.

oOoOoOoOo

Kingsley was tired. It was just coming up on dinnertime, but it felt like midnight.

He knew that was because he hadn't slept the night before. How could he sleep? The Ministry had fallen. Good witches and wizards had died. The people closest to him – John Kelly, Flora Chaucer, Gregor Lee, Licester Jones. Even more were injured.

And Percy had been in the hospital recovering from severe injuries with potential brain damage.

Kingsley had stayed at the office in Greenfriar, keeping the midnight watch over England. And he was paying for it now. He rested his elbows on his desk and rubbed his eyes. "Is that it?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"For now, yes," said Daphne Sturgess. She was the second assistant, more of a secretary, really, but she filled in when Percy was indisposed (caught up in some other Ministry business), out of country (on Ministry business), sick (rarely), or took vacation (ha! like Percy had ever taken vacation).

"Good," Kingsley said.

"Most of the cabinet have already turned in for the night," Daphne said. "Your room is ready for you, whenever you decide to turn in, and the kitchen is open. Shall I send in dinner?"

Dinner sounded perfect. Kingsley let out a mighty yawn, stretched, and said, "Yes. If you-,"

There was a brief knock on the door and then Deanna, the secretary, stuck her head in. "Don't get too alarmed, sir," she said in opening.

Kingsley immediately felt his shoulders tense. He forced them to relax. "Yes?"

"Assistant Minister Weasley had a bit of a fainting spell," Deanna said. "Healer James is with him now."

Kingsley got up and strode for the door. "Where?"

"His office," said Deanna, holding the door open for him.

Kingsley turned to the left outside his office and walked down the short hall to Percy's office. It had once been a drawing room and Percy was currently reclining on what once had been a brocade armchair, but was now transfigured into a lounge of sorts. Several pillows were propped up behind him and a thick blanket was pulled over his legs. Healer James was sitting beside him, taking his pulse. James didn't look too concerned, and Percy flushed a little when Kingsley walked in. He was embarrassed. That was a heartening sign. If he was embarrassed, then it wasn't anything serious.

"Over did it?" Kingsley asked.

It was obvious that was the problem. Percy was still pale, and the circles beneath his eyes had deepened. He gave a wan smile. "Just slightly."

"He'll stay right here for the night," said Healer James, releasing Percy's wrist. "No work, just rest, a good meal, and a good night's sleep."

Percy glanced at the coffee table. An entire apothecary of medicinal herbs and potions was set up on the surface.

"Ah, and those, of course," said James.

Percy huffed a little, annoyed. James shot him a look. "Maybe next time you'll believe me when I say you need a week of rest, huh?"

"Hardly," said Kingsley, answering for Percy, but he stepped further into the room and pulled over the other brocade armchair. "I was just about to order up some dinner myself. I'll keep you company."

Percy sighed, but some tension seemed to bleed out of him. Kingsley could imagine the prospect of being alone right now, still trying to avoid the trauma that had been inflicted on him, was not restful.

"Soup for you," James told Percy. "And once we get some food into your system, we can start with the potions."

Percy looked decidedly apprehensive.

OoOoOoOoO

Ginny stared blankly at the vanity mirror. She just finished a shower, she was wrapped up in a fuzzy robe, and she just didn't have it in her to comb through her wet hair or put any make-up on.

Charlie was dead.

 _Charlie_ was dead.

Charlie – the emotional anchor for the family – was gone. The Weasleys were prone to temper – everyone knew that. Charlie though – Charlie was always quicker with a laugh than an angry word. He was the one that always defused the fighting in the house, he was the one that could step in and douse the flames – just like he could calm a dragon. And now he was gone.

Ginny put her elbows down on the vanity top and put her head in her hands. Her heart hurt. Her chest felt tight.

She blindly reached out and snagged the letter that was tucked into the corner of the mirror. She resisted the urge to squeeze it, wanting to hold on tight but not wanting to crease the pages. Draco's letter to her. He said he should have been back by now.

"Where are you?" Ginny whispered, her voice catching on the words. "I need you right now."

She tried to ignore the thought in her head that said maybe Draco was dead too.

She tried to ignore it, but the voice just got louder.

She sobbed.

OoOoOoOoO

Percy woke to blackness and – for one second – he panicked and his hands went to his face, sure there must be something blindfolding him. And then he remembered that he was blind. And this darkness was his life now.

Percy sucked in a quick breath and let it out slowly. If this was his life now, then surely he could grow used to it. So he looked around at nothing, his eyes blinking rapidly, still trying vainly to clear his vision. He took in another breath and forced himself to acclimatize to the black, to the emptiness. He'd never really been scared of the dark before. This shouldn't be a problem for him.

He pushed himself up a little bit. A pillow slipped out from behind him and toppled to the floor. Percy reached out gingerly, trying to feel for the pillow, but all he felt was empty air. He reached down further, and further, and further. His heart skipped a beat. Where was the floor? Surely he was reaching down too far. Shouldn't his fingers be touching the carpet by now?

Why couldn't he feel the floor?

He had the sudden feeling that the floor was no longer there, and he was about to tip off the bed and fall into nothing. He grabbed onto the bed with one hand and desperately groped for his glasses with the other. He'd taken them off. He'd put them right on the side table.

His fingers hit the table. He fumbled for the glasses, seized, them and hurriedly pulled them on just as the door was flung open. Healer James rushed in.

"Are you okay?"

Percy didn't feel okay. And he was sure that his heartbeat was skyrocketing and that had alerted the Healer. He pulled in a breath. "Just… adjusting," he said, somewhat lamely.

The Healer crossed over, performed a few vital-monitoring charms, and frowned. "How do you feel about a fortnight in a spa somewhere out of the country? Because if your blood pressure doesn't go down, I'm going to order you there."

Percy sighed and snagged the pillow from the floor. "Just give me a potion, James."

"The country will run without you," James said.

"Right into a brick wall," Percy retorted. He wasn't leaving.

James sighed. "I'll give you a few potions, but you're not cleared to work until you've had breakfast. And a bath. Not a shower, an actual bath. This manor has quite the decadent bathing facilities and you will use them."

"You drive a hard bargain, Healer James," said Percy.

"I'll send for your breakfast," said James.

He left the room and Percy sank back onto the pillows, silently cursing himself for being such a wimp. If only his brothers could see him now, freaking out about a dropped pillow, they'd laugh their arses off.

oOoOoOoO

Bill sat beside Charlie's bed. Charlie's body lay on the bed, still and silent, like he was sleeping.

Actually, not like he was sleeping. Charlie was a sprawler, or rather, had been a sprawler. He would end up half on the floor some nights. This still, straight body wasn't Charlie.

Bill felt a hand on his shoulder. He grabbed it, immediately knowing it was Fleur. He felt her fingers tighten, squeezing, offering comfort.

Bill bent forward, put his head in his hands, and felt hot, heavy tears stream down his face.

oOoOoOoO

Kingsley dropped the paper down on his desk. He put his head in his hands. "Shit."

"I thought you'd want to know," said Daphne.

"Has this been made public?"

She shook her head. "The official casualty list is still being compiled. It won't be released until we're sure that the families were notified first. Most likely two or three days now."

Kingsley rubbed his head. "How many people know about this?"

"Not many."

"Keep it that way," said Kingsley. "And get me James."

Daphne nodded and left the office. Kingsley rubbed his forehead and glanced down at the paper again. _Shit_.

Healer James knocked lightly on the open door and Kingsley looked up and waved him in. James shut the door and then took the seat in front of the desk.

"How is he?" Kingsley asked.

There was no need to clarify who 'he' was.

"Eating breakfast," said James, being deliberately obtuse.

Kingsley raised his eyebrows. James heaved an angry sigh and dropped into the chair in front of his desk.

"How do you think, Kingsley? He was tortured to the extent of having brain damage, consequentially lost his sight, and now he's back at work without taking any time to grieve or rage or curl up in a ball and cry. He's a wreck."

Kingsley was a little taken aback. "A wreck?"

James sighed again, a little less hostilely this time. "A very neat and tidy wreck," he allowed. "But he needs time, Kingsley. I'd like it if he wasn't at work at all, but I can't convince him to leave."

"He's just handling insurance forms," said Kingsley.

"Good," said James. "Give him all the time he needs to catalogue lost objects and fill out forms."

Kingsley steepled his fingers. "How well do you think he could handle a shock right now?"

James recoiled. "Shock? What? No – no shock, Kingsley. Not even a surprise." James frowned. "Why?"

Kingsley slid the piece of paper over the desk. "That's an updated list of casualties. It won't be made public for the time being. His brother, Charlie, is on the list."

James let out a breath. "Shit."

"Should I tell him?"

James shook his head. "No. Not yet. Not unless you want him back in the hospital."

"I have to tell him sometime," Kingsley said.

"Get his family to come in, or a close friend, to break the news to him. But not today, Kingsley. For Merlin's sake, he should still be in the hospital."

Kingsley tried not to feel the relief that followed, and then the guilt. "I'll owl his parents. See if they can come in."

James nodded. "Good."

oOoOoO

Author's note: Well, that took a while, didn't it? Real life threw a bit of loop at me. I think I updated my profile to reflect that there'd been a bit of a family crisis, and then it resolved, and then there was a crisis again. Because it was so much fun the first time around. But it's all good now.

Also - Percy is taking up a bit too much of my time. I got one more chapter of him left (which will be up next week, promise! because it's written, it just needs editing, and then we'll go back to Draco.) Sorry for the detour!


	11. The Aftermath: Part II

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Alas.

Author's Note: Next chapter returns to Draco. I'm thinking I'll need two weeks as I have to re-orient myself to the actual plot of this book, lol.

OoOoOoOoO

 **One year ago…**

"You'll have to give a statement," Gleason said.

Percy looked at all of the magazines and articles that littered the coffee table. ' _Hero of England, Assistant Minister Weasley_ ' read the Daily Prophet, ' _Brave and Courageous Assistant Minister Saves England_ ' said the Magical Times, ' _Percy Weasley – Britain's Unsung Hero_ ' proclaimed the Wizarding Weekly.

Percy looked back up at Gleason. "What the hell did you do?"

Gleason shrugged. "This wasn't me, Weasley. Your story is just that compelling. And here, look at this one, the ladies are loving you."

He tossed Percy a women's magazine. Percy looked at the photo on front. It was a photo of him – not that this was a new development, all of the newspapers had photos of him – but this type of photo was new. All the other newspapers had used official photos of him, his stern portrait in front of the flag, his somber picture when he had been sworn into office, and so forth. All of them had captured Percy looking serious and grave.

This photo, however, was a candid shot. Percy had to think back to recall the event. It had been right after a long and trying news conference. The news had been good for a change. They'd received a pledge of assistance from the States. The official Ministry photographer had followed Kingsley and the others back to the Minister's office to take a few 'behind the scene' photos.

Percy was rarely the focus of the photographers, but this time the camera had focused on him. He was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Kingsley's desk. His dress robes were draped over the arm of the chair, leaving him in dress trousers and a plain Oxford, open at the throat. The picture captured him in the act of pulling off his glasses, glancing out of frame, and then laughing, ever-so-slightly, at something unseen. If Percy remembered correctly, John Kelley had just cracked a joke.

It was a very flattering photo of him, which made Percy stare at it for a moment. He usually looked pinched or upset in photos. 'Constipated' was the way Fred and George always described it. In this photo though… he almost looked like Bill. _Almost_. Bill was easily the best-looking of the Weasley boys, and Percy couldn't really hope to surpass his brother in that regard.

He glanced at the headline above the photo. " _Assistant Minister Percy Weasley: Smart, Brave, and Sexy_." The tagline read, " _Learn about the handsome hero who saved the Ministry of Magic – and he's single_!"

Percy felt something like panic seize him. He looked up at Gleason. "What the hell is this? Sexy? Single?"

Gleason raised his hands, acting innocent, but also looking like he was having a blast at Percy's discomfort. "Hey, I did not print that, but wow, is it doing wonders for your popularity. Everyone is clamoring for an interview, and I mean, everyone. Even a bunch of foreign media sites are interested."

"Shit," Percy said, feeling something like dread wash over him.

Gleason laughed, just a little. "Look, Weasley, we need to think about catering to the media. I can see it going one of two ways. One, we do it press conference style. You give a statement, take a bunch of questions, and it'll be over in thirty minutes. The downside is it'll be more chaotic and it will be harder to control the questions that are asked and the narrative that comes out. Option number two, we sit you down for a one on one interview. That will be longer, about an hour, but we can pre-screen the questions and guide the story. What do you think?"

For as much as Percy disliked Gleason, there were times like this when he remembered just how good Gleason was at his job. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. "There are more important people to interview."

"I've got other heroes on a press conference tomorrow," said Gleason. "Rudy Costace and George Parrish will be there answering questions about how they evacuated the Ministry. Laurel Heddy, from Sports, will talk about how she evacuated her whole floor safely, and Carlo Santiago, intern for Muggle Affairs, will talk about he wrestled a hippogriff."

"Put me in with them," said Percy. "Let's not give too much attention to this story. It's ridiculous enough already."

Gleason shook his head. "That won't be enough."

"We'll think about a one-on-one later," said Percy. "But I'm not about to steal the spotlight from anyone else who risked their life to save the Ministry. Put me in with them. And I want to approve the reporters who will be in attendance."

"You always do," said Gleason.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Arthur Weasley considered the letter in front of him. It came from a regal looking eagle-owl, bearing the crest that marked it as an official Ministry owl. The owl was waiting now, perched still and patient on the table, as Arthur tried to come up with an appropriate reply. He struggled for words, so he read the letter again.

' _Arthur and Molly,_

 _I am deeply saddened and grieved to hear of Charlie's death. Charlie was a brave man, a good man, and I know his absence will be felt dearly._

 _Not only is this letter to wish you the deepest of condolences, but also to let you know that Percy is doing well. I know there have been reports of his injuries. Rest assured, he is recovering well and is, as usual, trying to do too much too soon. We are making sure he gets his rest._

 _I do hope you are proud of your son – both your sons – and if I might request a favor, could you please consider coming to the Ministry and seeing Percy? I'm sure that being with his parents during this time would be a great comfort to him._

 _Please write back when it is convenient for you to travel here, and I will see to it that the proper arrangements are made._

 _My heartfelt sympathies,_

 _Kingsley Shacklebolt_

Arthur put the letter down. He picked up the newspaper beside it, one of many that talked about how Percy had single-handedly saved England.

The newspaper stated that after seeing the Minister to safety, Percy had activated the self-destruct on the Ministry building, preventing Voldemort from gaining control. But that report did not match what Arthur knew to be true.

After Kingsley had been evacuated, there had been hours of conflict. Hundreds of civilians, Aurors, Civis Arma troops, and Order members had died. And no one had even seen Percy. And Charlie, convinced that Percy was in danger, had died trying to save him.

So where had Percy been during those hours? Why hadn't he activated the self-destruct sooner?

And the newspaper said Percy was seriously injured in the attempt. But now Kingsley was reporting that he was back at work already.

Arthur felt grief and anger well in his chest. He was burying Charlie tomorrow. He was trying to console his family, comfort his wife, and plan a funeral, and now Kingsley wanted him to visit Percy to… what, exactly? Hold his hand while his scrapes were tended to?

Arthur picked up his pen and formulated a quick response.

 _Dear Kingsley,_

 _Thank you for your sympathies. Charlie's death is a great tragedy to this family._

 _I have already owled Percy concerning his brother's death and funeral arrangements. We had hoped he would come home. His mother is requesting that the family retire to the Burrow and spend time together. We assumed that, due to his lack of response, he was not inclined to attend. I am, of course, grateful to hear he is recovered from any injuries he might have sustained._

 _Charlie's service is tomorrow, 2pm. You are most welcome to come as well, although I recognize that might be difficult for you in your position. Surely you could spare Percy for attendance._

 _Yours,_

 _Arthur_

oOoOoOoOo

"What is that?" Percy demanded.

It was morning, early morning. Too early, in Percy's opinion, but with the press conference taking up most of the afternoon, he needed to get some actual work done. He hadn't been expecting Deanna to levitate an entire box of parchment onto his desk.

"Mail for you," Deanna said.

Percy looked inside at the hundreds and hundreds of letters that were inside. "But… I was only gone from my apartment for a few days. I was only expecting a water bill."

"Let me specify," said Deanna. "This is fan mail. If your water bill is in it, we're going to have to do some digging."

Percy felt something twinge in his temples. "I don't have time for this," he said faintly.

"This isn't even all of it," said Deanna. "This is just what security cleared, so if you have any urgent correspondences… well, let's hope that water bill isn't due soon, huh?"

"There has to be a better way," said Percy.

Deanna shrugged. "All of the Ministry mail is going to be delayed for the next few weeks. Not only is there more of it, but security needs to make sure nothing's been sabotaged."

"We're going to have urgent correspondences that can't wait a few weeks," Percy said. "What can we do to quicken the process?"

"Our correspondence secretaries who filter through the mail are either stuck in London, injured in a hospital, or dead," said Deanna, rather bluntly.

Percy felt the same twinge in his head. He rubbed at his temples. "Right. Okay. Let's send out a call to the local temp agencies and put a job posting in the paper. We're the Ministry of Magic. We need to be able to answer our mail on time. Have Lindsay interview any potential candidates. Make sure they appear capable of learning on the job."

Deanna nodded. "And what about this box?"

Percy sighed and motioned over to the corner. "Somewhere over there."

She did as instructed. Percy let out a breath and tried to re-focus on the insurance forms that were stacked in pillars around him. A knock on the door interrupted him. Percy looked up and tried not to scowl. "Gleason."

"Read it and rejoice," Gleason said, plopping a newspaper down on his desk, sending a couple loose pages fluttering to the floor.

Percy glanced at the headline. " _Interview with the Heroes of the Ministry This Afternoon_.' The subheading read, 'Learn all about the harrowing details of the battle at the Ministry. Tune into the live broadcast'.

"Live broadcast?" Percy demanded, because he did not agree to that.

"Hey, once the radio stations learned that you were going to be attending, I've been receiving requests to air it non-stop. It's going to be a larger audience than the Quidditch World Cup."

The twinge in his temples sharpened. Percy sucked in a breath and massaged his temples, trying to ease it away. "You can't just spring this on me."

"What's been sprung on you?" Kingsley demanded, entering in the room. There was something sharp in his tone that had Percy glancing up, confused.

"Radio," said Gleason. "The press conference is going to be on the radio."

Some of the tension eased out of Kingsley, but he still frowned at Gleason. "Get a list of pre-approved questions out there."

"Pre-approved questions!" Gleason whined.

"Or Percy gets pulled," said Kingsley. "For Merlin's sake, Gleason, are you trying to send him back to the hospital?"

Gleason whined a little bit more, but then grudgingly moved off. Percy shot Kingsley a look. "I'm not going to faint again."

Kingsley grabbed a chair. "I think it's too much for you right now."

Percy shrugged. "Gleason knows what he's doing. It's useful to show a strong government to the people right now. And if that means sitting through a press conference, then I can do that."

"It's not just a press conference," said Kingsley.

Percy frowned. "What?"

"The Wizengamot rushed through the applications for several honors for those at the conference, you included. You'll be receiving a medal for your efforts in the battle."

Percy blinked for a moment. Something warm and vain bolstered in his chest, the way it always did when he got recognition for a job well done. It was followed immediately by a plummet of guilt. Why was he getting an award when others had died?

And then something dark twisted in his thoughts. A medal? He'd lost his vision, and he was getting a medal? As if that made it all better?

The sharpness in his temples became a bolt shooting through his brain. He dropped his head forward on his hands.

"Whoa, you okay, Percy?"

"Migraine," said Percy. He was used to migraines. Everyone knew he had migraines. He wanted it to be a migraine and not something else. Side effects of the glasses.

Kingsley dropped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Take it easy until this afternoon. Lie down for a bit. I'll have Healer James come up with some pain relievers."

Percy let out a breath. Pain relievers sounded perfect.

oOoOoOoOo

Bill paused for a moment, not quite sure he'd heard that right, and then reached out and turned up the radio.

" _-his first interview since the attack at the Ministry_ ," radio announcer Gladys Temple was saying. " _The hero who saved the Ministry from falling into the wrong hands, Assistant Minister Percy Weasley_."

" _And that's not all_ ," said Mike Patrick. " _There are rumors that he'll also receive recognition from the Ministry for his actions, perhaps the Medal of Arthur, which awards valor and service to the nation_."

" _If anyone deserves it, it's the Assistant Minister_ ," said Gladys. " _And he'll be joined on stage by three other heroes of the battle, so remember, tune in for the ceremony. It will be starting today at 1:30_."

Arthur reached by him and smacked the radio off. Stunned silence filled the kitchen. Bill glanced around at the family gathered.

"He'll be here," said Ginny, crossing her arms. "He won't choose an award over Charlie's funeral."

"He let Charlie die," Fred said.

"Oh, bollocks," Ginny retorted.

"You weren't there," George said, speaking up in defense of his twin. "We were trying to get down to the seventh floor. We were fighting Death Eaters because we were told that Percy was down there. We didn't see him."

"The Ministry is huge," Ginny argued back. "That means nothing."

"We swept the Ministry," said Ron. He looked up from his cup of tea. "We swept the Ministry, Ginny. We didn't see him."

"He was hiding," said Fred.

"Is that so bad?" Ginny asked. "He was trying to get to the self-destruct, and he was all alone, and maybe that was the best he could do."

"Hiding while Charlie died for him?" George asked. "Is that really the best he could do?"

"You don't know the full story," Ginny said, her eyes flashing defiance. "Until we hear it from Percy's mouth, we are not going to accuse him of anything other than doing his job."

"Oh, we're going to hear it," said Ron. "At 1:30 pm. When he gives an interview and gets a medal while Charlie gets buried."

Molly burst into tears and ran out of the room. Arthur followed her. Ginny glared at her brothers. Bill watched the glares get returned. And then he noticed Pansy, in the corner of the room, something hard and scary entering her eyes.

oOoOoOoOo

The interview was being held at the War Memorial Building. Rather fitting, Percy thought, all things considered.

He and Kingsley arrived early because there were plenty of matters to be dealt – and plenty of officials to meet with. The War Memorial was the closest building to the Ministry with extra space, and so it was already becoming a secondary Ministry site for the minor offices – the Department of Sports and Magical Animals and the like.

It was also commonly used for state funerals, and when Percy and Kingsley walked by the back hall, there was a funeral in progress. Percy recognized the portrait displayed outside of the closed doors. Violetta Gabny.

He paused and stared.

"She was found dead in her home after the Ministry fell," Kingsley told him. "The Violetta we saw that morning was an imposter."

There was an attendant at the doors. "The service just started, Minister," she said.

Percy looked over at Kingsley, and together they stepped towards the door. The attendant swung it open, and they slipped unobtrusively inside, followed by the more distracting contingent of Aurors tasked with following the Minister.

oOoOoOoOoOo

The clock drew closer to two pm. Bill couldn't help but watch the clock while he listened to the radio. He'd thought at first that Percy was going to be interviewed right at one-thirty. He'd thought that Percy would say a few words and then he'd come straight to the Burrow for the funeral.

But it was quickly becoming obvious that the ceremony was deliberately saving Percy for last. Bill watched out the window as the lawn filled up – relatives and neighbors and Order members all piling underneath the black tent that took up the entire front lawn. Bill remembered getting married there. The tent had been white then.

Bill had already listened to a few opening speeches. And then he had listened to a few awards given out. Laurel Heddy and Carlo Santiago both received the Medal of Arthur – civilian recognitions for their service to the country. George Parrish and Rudy Costace both received the Golden Shield.

Bill glanced at the clock now. It was minutes away from 2pm. The kitchen door opened and Arthur stepped in. "You coming?" he asked.

Over the radio, the Chief of Aurors was speaking. " _And now, I ask that the Assistant Minister, Percy Weasley, join me on the stage_."

The applause from the audience was thunderous. The radio announcer, Gladys Temple, had to pitch her voice louder to be heard over the applause. " _The Assistant Minister is walking out now. You can hear by the cheers that he is the one everyone is excited for. His story and bravery have captivated the nation. He's shaking hands with the Chief Auror now_."

Arthur stepped closer. Both he and Bill bent over the radio.

" _Assistant Minister Percy Weasley_ ," said the Chief Auror. " _It is my great honor to grant to you the Staff of Merlin!_ "

The radio crackled with the cheers from the audience. Bill looked up at his father and they both stared, incredulous. The Staff of Merlin was the most prestige award in the nation.

And _Percy_ had gotten it?

" _Astounding!"_ Gladys Temple exclaimed into her microphone. " _The Staff of Merlin hasn't been awarded in a century. It's reserved for the highest of honors, and it is clear that England agrees with this decision. The entire audience is on their feet. I can see the Assistant Minister looking rather stunned, it appears he did not know about this honor. He's shaking hands again with the Chief Auror, and now with the other honorees on stage. Official reports said he was seriously injured in the attack, but it is clear he recovered well. There are no visible injuries._

" _And just listen to that crowd! Still standing. Still applauding. We'll have to wait until the end of the conference to hear what the Assistant has to say as he is scheduled last in the line up. We expect we will hear him around three o'clock, if everything stays on schedule. Now-,"_

Arthur flicked the radio off. "Come," he said. "The funeral is starting."

OoOoOoOoO

Percy waited in the wings as Rudy and George finished up their interview. A make-up witch flitted about him, dabbing a little bit of potion to his face to make him less pale.

"Two minutes," an assistant told him.

The make-up witch dabbed one last spot on his face and then gently ran a soft cloth over the medal pinned to his chest. The Staff of Merlin.

Percy still couldn't believe it had been awarded to him. The highest honor for bravery and service to England. Percy was only the twelfth person to receive the medal. He'd been so shocked, so surprised, that he hadn't heard what the chief of Aurors had whispered in his ear as he pinned it to his robes. He'd been afraid his knees would give out from standing so long as the audience kept clapping and cheering.

Percy had only been expecting the medal of Arthur – like the other two civilians had received. He had no idea…

It was going on four o'clock now. The interviews and speeches were running over, and Percy was scheduled last. The others were on stage. Carlo and Laurel had taken seats on stage, their portion of the interview already over. Rudy and George were at the podium now, feeding off of each other as they talked about their ordeal during the battle. Rudy was the funny one, and George was the straight man. They could have been a comedy duo. They were half the reason it was going so long.

The moderator finally had them step back to join the other seated guests, and then Percy was called back onto stage.

Percy sucked in a breath and then stepped out onto the stage. The applause was less intense now. Maybe the audience was getting tired after two hours of pageantry. Maybe their hands hurt from clapping so hard for everyone else.

Percy crossed the stage, shook hands with the moderator, and then took his spot at the podium. He pulled the note cards from his robe pocket and carefully arranged them. He was supposed to start with his statement. Percy looked out at the audience and began his carefully planned words.

oOoOoOoOo

The radio was on.

Percy's voice was talking.

Molly wanted to listen, she truly did. Arthur had said that Percy had been given the Staff of Merlin, and part of Molly understood why Percy had missed Charlie's funeral. That award was so important, and so grand, it would be a hard thing to say 'no' to. Especially for Percy. Percy always loved winning awards.

Molly knew it was his way of trying to stand out from his brothers. She knew he was desperate for attention and validation, and she genuinely tried hard to give it to him. She tried to give all of her children equal time and energy, but the others tended to be so loud, and Percy so quiet, that sometimes he did get neglected.

And then when Molly tried to make-up for that lapse, tried to shower him with praise and affection, it seemed to only make things worse. It came off insincere, and the other boys, picking up on the extreme, thought it was something of a joke and teased him for the attention.

So Molly understood why he hadn't come, but she also wondered why he couldn't have just postponed the ceremony. Percy was always talking about his position in the government, and all the responsibilities he had. Surely he could have moved the press conference. Surely he could have at least asked his parents to delay Charlie's funeral. Arthur would have been furious to be sure, but Molly would have done it. If Percy had been that brave, if he truly deserved the Staff of Merlin, then he should have the opportunity to be recognized for it.

Molly wasn't quite sure what Percy had done, apart from setting the self-destruct on the Ministry, but it must be important if he was getting the Staff of Merlin. She tried to pay attention to Percy talking on the radio, tried to understand what he had done, but it was hard. Her mind kept wandering to Charlie. To his casket. To the hole in the ground.

There was applause on the radio, jerking her from her thoughts.

" _And now the Assistant Minister will take questions from the audience_ ," Gladys Temple announced.

oOoOoOoOo

Percy took a sip of water as the first reporter spoke up.

"Assistant Minister, can you describe what was your greatest obstacle in getting to the self-destruct?"

The questions had all been submitted to Percy and Gleason before the conference. Percy started his answer with a little pre-planned joke. "You mean apart from convincing the Minister to actually evacuate the Ministry and not don his old Auror robe to fight the Death Eaters?"

He paused for the laughter, not raucous laughter, but the polite chuckle of an audience eager for levity in dark times. He waited a few beats, and then continued. "Honestly, I had a lot of help from Auror Rudy Costace, who is here along with me today, his actions being appropriately honored."

Percy paused again, for applause this time, and even joined in.

Rudy took that as his cue to jump up and join Percy at the microphone. "I got taken out halfway through, but I assure you, that not even Potter himself could have fought the horde of Death Eaters I was up against."

More laughter, louder this time. Rudy was far better with the jokes. The Auror gave a jaunty little wave and then reclaimed his seat.

"After Auror Costace was injured," Percy continued, "I had to make my way to the self-destruct alone. Thankfully, being Assistant Minister means I know a lot of back passageways and shortcuts. Even most Ministry employees weren't aware of the route I was taking, much less the attacking forces. The hardest part was probably staying out of sight. I'm not the strongest dueler, so I really focused on stealth over brute force."

"Stealth?" asked a voice. An alarmingly familiar voice.

Percy frowned and glanced out over the auditorium. He spotted Gladwell Avery tucked into a side row. He was standing, his wand projecting his voice over the entire audience.

"Mr. Avery," said Percy, "I wasn't aware security was letting you in these days."

In fact, security was not supposed to let Avery in at all. The reporter was notorious for inflammatory pieces and general mayhem. That was the reason he had been barred from Ministry press conferences.

"You can't keep the truth of being reported, Assistant," said Avery.

"And you can't seem to stick to the truth," Percy responded back, keeping his voice neutral but stern.

"Let's have the truth then," Avery challenged. "By stealth, you mean you were hiding, weren't you?"

Percy could see several Aurors walking down the aisle, ready to remove the reporter, but Percy knew that would just cause a greater commotion. And then the public would start to wonder why reporters were being removed from the conference. They would start to wonder if Percy had something to hide. He leaned in to the microphone. "There is no need to remove Mr. Avery at this time."

The Aurors paused. There was a palpable tension in the room. Percy gave a bland sort of smile, one that said he wasn't troubled in the least by Avery's accusation. "I will answer your question, Mr. Avery; however, I daresay you will have to answer to the Aurors before you leave. Yes. There were times when I hid from the Death Eaters. If I felt that I could not defeat the forces at hand, I tried to avoid them, and if I could not avoid them, I hid from them, all while making my way down to the self-destruct trigger."

"It was obviously the better move," Rudy called out from the stage. "Seeing as I ended up unconscious after trying to force my way through."

There were a few laughs and a few murmurs from the audience.

Percy appreciated the backup from the Auror. He looked back at Avery. "Is that all?"

"Hardly," said Avery. "I understand you attended the funeral of Ms. Violetta Gabny this afternoon. Why did you attend Ms. Gabny's funeral and not other Ministry employees?"

Percy resisted the urge to sigh because of course a gesture of respect was now going to be taken out of context. Instead, he answered clearly and precisely. "The Minister and I arrived early for the news conference today. We saw that the funeral had just begun. As Ms. Gabny was a good friend of myself and the Minister, it seemed only appropriate that we stop in to pay our respects. Obviously, we cannot attend every funeral, although if it were possible, I would attend every funeral, and I believe the Minister would do the same."

"And what about your brother's funeral?" Avery asked. "Was it not possible for you to attend his service today?"

Percy paused. What?

What funeral?

Being a politician meant Percy never revealed when he was caught off guard. He never admitted to not knowing what the hell someone else was talking about.

He paused now, and glanced to the others on stage, hoping for some sign. He saw Rudy stiffen.

Percy extrapolated from that piece of information. Rudy was a liaison to the Order. He would know if the Order had suffered causalities. He would know if one of Percy's brothers was dead.

Rudy's body language told him that Avery's accusation was correct. One of his brothers was dead.

The world seemed to spin underneath him. The earth was re-setting on a new axis. One of his brothers was dead.

There were faint murmurs in the audience. Percy was taking too long to answer. The audience was wondering if the Assistant Minister had skipped his brother's funeral to attend an award's ceremony – hardly the message of valor and honor that the Ministry was trying to convey.

Percy had a job to do. He turned back to Avery. The reporter was waiting, a smug smile on his lips.

Percy opened his mouth and began to speak, feeling oddly removed from his body. It felt like he was listening to himself speak from across the room.

"At this time, I am not ready to discuss my personal life. The purpose of this conference was to honor the brave men and women who risked their lives in the battle, and I am very humbled to be a part of this interview. I recognize that my story pales in comparison to the others on stage today."

He paused, licked his lips, and continued. "I believe that, as a country, we need to hear these stories. We need to be reassured that there are brave men and women willing to rescue us, willing to save us, willing to die for us. That is why I came here today. Not for glory. Not for accolades. But to do my part in reassuring our great nation that we are still strong. We are still resolved. We are still united. I believe that the citizens of Great Britain will sleep sounder tonight knowing that."

Percy paused for breath and realized that people were applauding. A few people were standing up. He waited for the applause to die back down and then turned to Avery. He pinned the reporter with a look. "This is not a platform to draw attention to personal tragedies. Not when such tragedies are being felt across the country. I would ask that you respect that, and to respect my own need for privacy at this time. And now, Mr. Avery, I do believe it is time for you to exit this room."

Percy gestured for the Aurors to come down. They did and quickly whisked the reporter away. From the back, someone gave a cheer.

And already there was another reporter standing, a hand in the air, ready to ask a question. Percy glanced down at his note cards. There were so many questions left. There were so many answers to give and statements to make.

But who was dead?

Which of his brothers had died?

Percy stepped back from the podium. He tried to take in a breath, tried to steady himself. It wasn't working. He leaned back into the microphone. "My apologies. I will take no further questions."

He left the stage with an urgent step, barely hearing the murmurs from the audience.

One of his brothers was dead.

Kingsley was waiting in the wings. Percy walked past him and out the auditorium door.

Who was it? Who was dead?

Kingsley was following him. He was saying something. Percy couldn't hear him. He walked out of the building. There was a Ministry car at the curb.

What if it were Charlie? Oh, Merlin. Not Charlie.

Percy reached the car. He opened the back door.

"Percy, please wait," Kingsley said.

Percy turned. Kingsley looked distressed. Percy could extrapolate from that piece of information as well. Kingsley knew that one of his brothers was dead.

"You knew," said Percy.

Kingsley's face constricted. "The Healer said you weren't ready for the news. Percy, you're pale as a ghost. Let's find James."

"Who is it?" Percy asked.

Kingsley paused.

"Damn it, Kingsley!" Percy snapped. "Who is it?"

"Charlie," said Kingsley. "It was Charlie."

Oh, Merlin.

Percy hurriedly sat down in the back seat of the car because the world was spinning again.

"Percy, let's go back to Greenfriar," Kingsley said.

Percy pulled his legs into the car and shut the door. He engaged the lock and turned to the front seat. There was no driver – there didn't need to be a driver. "The Burrow."

The car pulled out.

Percy sucked in a breath.

Damn it, Charlie.

oOoOoOoOoOo

The black car pulled up to the house. Bill watched from the kitchen window. He'd been washing his teacup when the car had arrived, and he set the cup down now. Percy emerged from the back of the car. His robes were expensive. Bill didn't know why that was the first thing he noticed. Maybe because the sheen of his robes matched the sheen of the car.

Bill heard movement behind him and turned. Arthur had seen Percy as well.

Arthur cursed under his breath and that alerted the rest of the family.

They were all in the kitchen. The funeral was over. It'd been a short ceremony. They'd returned to the house afterwards because it was starting to rain and gradually the house had emptied leaving the Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, Severus, and Pansy.

They were all gathered around the table now because Molly had made tea, and then she'd made sandwiches, and then soup, and she would have kept going if Arthur hadn't made her sit down. The food was sitting on the table now. No one was really eating.

Bill leaned against the counter, feeling suddenly old and tired, and then the door opened and Percy stepped in.

Bill could see Percy tense as he took in the whole family, but then Percy's eyes rested on Molly.

"Mum," Percy breathed out, and he started forward.

"Where were you?"

The words were cold. The entire room looked over. Percy froze, mid-step, and turned towards Arthur. Bill hadn't heard that tone of voice from his father ever directed at one of the family before. It was usually reserved for the likes of Lucius Malfoy.

Bill looked at Percy, really looked at him, the way he used to study Draco when the teen was keeping information from him. Percy was pale. He looked tired. His eyes were pinched at the corners, which meant he was getting a headache. But there was no obvious sign of injury. No reason to why he missed the funeral.

No reason except the medal, pinned to his robes.

"I didn't know," said Percy, and there was a note of wretchedness in his voice that had Bill believing him. "I swear if I had known-,"

"How could you not know?" Arthur demanded. "We owled you. Twice!"

"The mail is – the mail is delayed," said Percy, stumbling over his words in earnestness. "It has to be searched, sorted. I haven't gotten any notice."

"His name is on the casualty list!" Fred spat, standing up from the table. "You don't need an owl for that, do you?"

Percy took a step back. Bill watched his eyes glance about the room. Percy opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed. It could have been nerves, Bill supposed, but it looked like Percy was trying to decide what to tell them.

Percy licked his lips. "I haven't been given the casualty reports."

George scoffed. "Not so high and mighty as you make yourself out, are you?"

Percy bristled. "I've been on light duty. I was injured. The Healer hasn't cleared me for anything more than paperwork."

"Oh, so the Healer will clear you for a broadcasted press conference, but not your own brother's funeral, is that it?" Arthur asked.

"No! I didn't know about the funeral. Of course I would have come if I had known!"

Arthur stepped forward and flicked the medal on Percy's chest. "Would you have? Or were you too proud about this?"

Bill watched Percy glance down at the medal, and then back up at Arthur. Percy's face set into something stubborn.

"I behaved myself admirably during the battle, and I am proud of my actions, and proud that my actions were recognized. But that doesn't mean I would choose this medal over Charlie's funeral. Of course I wouldn't. But yes, I am proud. And I hope that you are proud of me as well." Percy paused. He took in a breath. "During the battle, when I was trying to get to the self-destruct, I-,"

"Used stealth, didn't you, Perce?" Fred called.

"Hid from Death Eaters," George added.

"We heard the whole thing," said Fred. He gestured to the radio.

Percy shook his head. "Yes, I did. That's not the full story though."

"Not the full story?" Fred asked.

"What the hell does that mean?" George asked.

"It means that he's taking credit," said Arthur, crossing his arms.

"Taking credit?" Percy repeated. His cheeks flushed, a stark contrast to his pallor. "Taking credit for something I actually did? Merlin forbid I actually recognized for saving the country when _that's what I did_!"

"Charlie died trying to save you!"

Bill glanced over at the table. Ron was standing, his chest heaving. His hand was clutching the table.

There was a beat of silence.

"What?" Percy asked. His face drained of all the color it had gained during the argument.

"We came across Rudy Costace," said Bill, pitching his voice gentle, because it was obvious that at the very least, Percy had truly not known about Charlie's death. "He said you were trying to get down to the seventh floor. Charlie wouldn't leave without you."

Bill watched Percy took a couple of steps backwards and shake his head. "No."

"He was worried about you," Bill continued, still gentle.

Percy scrunched his eyes shut for a moment, like he wanted to block out reality.

"We couldn't get to the floor," said Bill. "He was hit by a killing curse. He didn't suffer."

Percy let out a breath and opened his eyes. He shook his head. "He shouldn't have tried to save me."

"Shouldn't have tried?" Arthur asked. "And why is that? Is it because you weren't where you said you were? Is it because you weren't in any danger at all?"

Percy's eyes sparked. "He shouldn't have tried because there was no way he could have gotten to me. He should have just given up."

"Yes," said Arthur. "Precisely what I'm thinking."

Bill flinched at the statement and it hadn't even been directed at him. Percy let out a harsh exhale, like he'd just been punched in the gut.

"Arthur!" Molly called, her voice admonishing.

"I say dad's right," said Fred.

"Percy doesn't even care that Charlie died for him," George said.

"Don't care?" Percy asked. He strode for the table and slapped his hand down so hard that Bill jumped with the crack of it. "Don't care? You think that I don't-," Percy stopped himself, whirled around to face the door, and Bill glimpsed at his face. It was practically bloodless. Percy whirled back around to the table.

"Charlie was mine!" Percy proclaimed. He stabbed the table with his finger in emphasis. "Charlie was _mine_! All of you had each other. None of you even cared, but Charlie - ," Percy's breath hitched in. His body trembled. And then something in his expression turned venomous. He took a step back from the table, deliberately separating himself from the family. He spoke, his voice cold and vicious. "Charlie would be the first person to tell you all to go to hell."

The family collectively sucked a breath in, shocked into silence by the cruelty in Percy's words. Molly burst into tears. Fred lunged forward, but George grabbed onto him. And Percy –

Percy looked like he didn't even care. He turned on his heel and marched smartly out of the house.

Bill watched him through the window. He didn't get back into his car. Instead he walked to the family cemetery in the small grove in the back.

oOoOoOoOoO

The family cemetery was located in a small, continually overgrown grove of trees in the back of the Burrow. Percy had always liked the faint wildness of the plot – the moss and ivy that wound around the graves and the white and purple wildflowers that seemed to spring up as quick as grass. It was a quiet place, a quick escape from the chaos of the house. Percy had often spent his summers tucked away in this cemetery, content with a handful of books and his thoughts.

Now, though, another grave had been added. The grounds had been carefully pruned and clipped for the ceremony, and none of the peace remained.

Percy knelt by the headstone and took a breath of damp, fresh-turned earth. He brushed a hand over the inscription.

 _Charles Weasley_

 _Son and Brother_

 _Never Forgotten_

Percy dropped fully to his knees. The tears that he had cried in the car ride over had dried. The only thing left was his anger.

"You're just too easy to bait, Perce," he could hear Charlie say.

The fact that the voice was only in his head didn't make it any less real.

"How, exactly?" Percy demanded of the gravestone.

"You take everything so personally," said Charlie's voice. "You know they're upset. You know they find someone to lash out at. You feed right into it, stoke the flames, and then you get mad when you get burnt. Go back in and explain. We're Weasleys, sometimes we have to be forced to listen."

"Like hell," Percy snapped. He shouldn't have to explain himself. They should have given him the benefit of the doubt. They'd give everyone except Percy a chance to explain themselves, and Percy's pride couldn't take it anymore.

He could hear Charlie sigh. "Why is it that you're at the most Weasley-est when it only hurts you? You can debate with the Wizengamot without getting angry. You can overlook an insult from a government official when etiquette asks it of you. You can turn your cheek to a whole slew of reporters when it suits you. But now that your family hurt your pride, you're holding the most epic of grudges."

Percy let out a breath. He placed a hand back on the gravestone. "Of course they took you, Charlie," he told the headstone. "You were the best of all of us."

There was no response. Percy sighed again and bowed his head. "I hope there are dragons for you to ride in the World Beyond."

A few splatters of rain fell. A couple of very deliberate footsteps warned him someone was approaching. Percy scrubbed a hand over his face and turned.

Severus Snape approached. He stopped a few feet away and inclined his head.

Percy stood. "You're looking well, Professor."

"Same to you, Assistant Minister," said Snape. "I had feared you were dead, seeing as I left you in the middle of an unpleasant conversation."

Percy heard what Snape wasn't saying. ' _I'm sorry I left you to die_.' He shook his head. "You were half a room away from me, Professor. And the Dark Lord is rather quick on the draw – seeing as he doesn't even need to use a wand anymore. There was no way you were going to reach me."

"Still," said Snape, "I was quite relieved to hear you survived. And I have been asked by the Civis Arma not to reveal what occurred in the Ministry, or I would have been more forthright with the Order about the crucial role you played."

Percy shrugged a shoulder. "The government needs some secrets."

"I do wonder, if perhaps it wouldn't benefit you if I did reveal more," Snape said delicately.

And Percy again heard what Snape wasn't saying. ' _I could tell your parents what really happene_ d.'

Percy scoffed. "I don't need you to fight my battles. Let them think what they will." He sucked in a breath and straightened his robes. He looked back at the house, and suddenly, it didn't seem like home anymore. "It's high time I said my good-byes."

oOoOoOoOoOo

Ginny heard the kitchen door open and glanced over. Percy re-entered. He cautiously glanced around, but there was only her and Bill left, cleaning up.

Percy cleared his throat. "I have to go back to the Ministry," he said. "Is Mum around?"

"In her chair," said Ginny.

Percy nodded and exited the room. Ginny finished drying a dish and then followed him to the living room.

Molly was sitting in her rocking chair. Her knitting was limp in her lap. Ginny watched Percy kneel beside her. She stopped rocking.

"Sorry about earlier, Mum," Percy said.

"Your brother's dead, Percy," Molly said, her voice strained. "Why did you have to say such hurtful things today of all days?"

Percy sighed. He reached out and grabbed her hand. "I know I make a mess of things sometimes."

"It's funny because you were always the neat one," Molly said, trying for a laugh. It came out a little watery.

Percy nodded and laughed a little too. "It's just… no one listens to me. I was trying to explain what really happened. Listen, Mum-,"

"We shouldn't need an explanation," Molly interjected, her voice imploring. "We should know what's happening in your life, Percy, so there aren't any explanations or excuses, but you shut us out."

"I wasn't the one who shut anyone out!" Percy said, his voice getting sharp. "Dad was the one-,"

"Please, no arguing," said Molly, her face looking pained. "Not today."

Ginny could see Percy's face fall a little, but then he schooled it into something more distant. "Of course. Not today. I won't upset you any further." He stood and kissed her cheek. "Be well, Mum."

"I love you, dear," Molly said.

Percy nodded and left the room. Ginny followed him to the door.

"Is it a good reason?" she asked.

Percy paused and turned to her.

"The reason you missed today," Ginny said. "Is it a good reason?" She could forgive him, was ready to forgive him, if he just gave her a reason.

"Good?" Percy asked. His expression morphed into sardonic, tilted lips and hard eyes. "Yes, it's a good reason. Is it good _enough_? Well, I think we both know the answer to that."

He gave a bland smile and left, the door closing after her with a sharp finality that echoed through the house.

oOoOoOoOoOo

 **Present Day…**

"Well, that's a load of bollocks," said Pansy, feeling slightly let down by the whole thing. She hadn't expected the whole family drama to be caused by lack of communication. Overall, the whole thing seemed rather anti-climatic.

She watched Percy shrug and take another bite of coconut curry. About a third into his story he'd ordered take-out. He made Pansy pay for it, and for another bottle of wine, which he opened and poured this time. She was feeling slightly less guilty about drugging his dinner now that he'd had her replace it. And the bottle of wine had been pricey.

"Seriously," said Pansy, shifting to look at him more fully. "Why didn't you just tell them that you're blind? Rubbed their noses in it."

"I shouldn't _have_ to tell them," Percy said. "No one else has to explain anything. I'm the only one that gets regularly interrogated. I'm not Weasley enough for them. Not noble enough. Not idealistic enough. Not poor enough."

Pansy snorted because it was a little bit funny. Not poor enough. Only Gryffindors would use poverty as a signal of superiority. The noble and honorable poor.

"You laugh, but it's true," said Percy. He put down his carton of curry and picked up his wine glass. "I'm too refined. Too polished." He gestured around him at his apartment, and Pansy laughed again.

His house was not refined. It was expensive, to be sure, and full of high-quality goods, but it was too comfortable to be refined. She looked at Percy, in his jeans and t-shirt, take-out on the coffee table, wine glass in his hands. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the wine. His bare feet were propped up on the table, his long toes curled over the edge. There was something refined about Percy though, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Too conniving," Percy said, a dark note in his voice. He took another sip of wine.

"Hardly," said Pansy.

Percy looked over at her. "You don't think I'm conniving?"

"You're not as clever as you think," said Pansy. "I mean, I just took you down. You knew I was someone up to no good, and you still invited me over, and you still ended up unconscious on the floor." She arched her eyebrow at him. "Sounds to me like you're a little stupid."

Percy shook his head. "That was simple risk-benefit analysis. I factored the potential benefit to be higher than the risk, and seeing as I'm still alive, it paid off."

"What potential benefit could you possible get from having me over?" Pansy asked. A sudden though hit her, and she felt a little disappointed. "Please tell me the benefit wasn't sex."

"What?" Percy spluttered. "No! I don't want to have sex with you!"

He sounded so sure of it that for one moment Pansy was slightly offended. "Well, why the hell did you invite me over?"

Percy turned to her. "I wanted to meet my niece."

OoOoOoOoO

Please review! :-D


	12. Frustration and Belief

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do own a crick in my neck. Blerg!

Author's Note: So sorry I didn't get around to reply to all your lovely reviews. This was a very last minute chapter. A moment of "oh crap! I need to get this up, stat!" But I appreciate every one of them!

OoOoOoOoO

 **Six Months Ago…**

Pansy stared down at her daughter in the crib. Barely a month had passed since she'd given birth, and still the awe and fear and wonderment that came with being a mother hadn't faded. Pansy reached out and gently traced a finger over her daughter's cheek. She watched her baby stir a little. Her tiny face scrunched ever-so-slightly. A soft gurgle left her lips, and then she stilled again.

Pansy walked to the window and pushed back the yellow lace curtain to peer outside. She could see the ocean from here. And the dozen-or-so houses that made up the village.

No one knew who Pansy was here. No one knew her family. No one knew the father of her baby had been killed in the battle at the Ministry of Magic. No one knew she was keeping her baby a secret.

Because the baby was all that was left of Charlie. And Pansy couldn't fathom letting anyone else hold her baby, or kiss her baby, or cuddle her baby. She couldn't share her. Didn't think she'd ever be able to share her.

A small, coughing sort of cry sounded from the crib. Pansy was immediately there, reaching down to scoop her daughter up.

"What's the matter, Charlotte? Did Mummy wake you up?

OoOoOoOoO

 **Present Day…**

"And this is the Slytherin common room," said Blaise, sweeping his arm out.

Draco stepped past him into the room and looked around curiously. He knew that the castle – or rather, school – had been abandoned after a messy fight with the Death Eaters. He'd seen some of the damage on the way in. A splintered door. A few cracked stones. A halfway demolished wall. The interior of the school had less battle damage, but it was still suffering from the lack of upkeep.

There was a layer of dust over the room. Cobwebs were thick in the corners and in the windows. A few animal tracks could be seen through the dust, mice, rats, and perhaps a small cat. A rustling in the rafters suggested that birds had found a way in.

But underneath the grime, Draco could see the room had once been a decadent place to meet, far nicer than anything he expected for a school. A marble fireplace. Silver candlesticks and torches along the walls. Plush looking furniture.

Blaise stepped past him and did a quick check for anything dangerous. When the school had been evacuated, Headmaster Dumbledore had pulled down the protective wards, choosing to let the creatures that had been contained in the school to overrun the castle rather than letting it fall into Death Eater hands.

Draco had been horrible confused when Bill had tried explaining it to him, so Hermione had lent him a book to read, _Hogwarts: A Dark History_.

Draco had spent two days poring over the text because it offered an incredible amount of detail into the magical world. It answered a lot of questions he had pondered, but it also created more questions. He'd followed Hermione around for a couple days and pestered her with them. Of all the occupants of the Manor, she seemed the most knowledgeable about the intricacies of the magical world. Those who had been born into magic simply accepted their reality instead of actively questioning it. Hermione hadn't seemed to mind. In fact, she was a surprisingly patient teacher.

From the book, Draco had been horrified to learn that there was all matter of supernatural creatures locked away in Hogwarts. Apparently it was easier to trap certain creatures instead of destroying or relocating them, and so children had gone to school in a veritable prison for shades and banshees and so forth. It didn't seem exactly safe to Draco.

"You used to sit there," Blaise said, pointing to a chair beside the fireplace. "You ruled over the rest of the house, even when you were only a first year."

"Huh," said Draco, not quite knowing what that meant. He'd gathered that he wasn't always the nicest of kids when he was younger, and that he was arrogant and prideful. But had he ruled over the house because he was smart or because he was rich? Because he was popular or because he was feared?

He didn't ask Blaise for clarification. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. He let Blaise finish sweeping the room in silence. During their planning meeting, Bill had told Draco to stay behind the others so he didn't stumble into anything hidden and dangerous. Draco had readily agreed. He was being taught to duel, and in the past couple of weeks, he'd been advancing rather quickly. His body seemed to remember casting positions and forms even though he had no memory of it. But no matter how good his muscle memory, Draco still had a lot to learn. He was the weakest member of the team.

He was content to follow Blaise through the common room and then the different dormitories. Draco had been told to look for anything that sparked his memory, seemed familiar, or caught his eye. Bill was sure that he would have spelled whatever capsule he stored his memory in to have a sort of beacon attached to it, so Draco could find it again. The trouble was nothing sparked his memory. Nothing looked familiar. And too much caught his eye.

Like the ghost that appeared to be hanging from the ceiling, content to watch them with a dark gaze. And the moving portraits. And the frankly too-large, too-grand beds that the students slept in. Were the carved bedposts and velvet curtains really necessary?

Draco and Blaise circled back to the common room. Blaise looked at him, eyebrows raised. Draco shrugged. "Nothing."

"It's a big castle," said Blaise. "Let's meet up with the rest and see if they found anything interesting."

Draco nodded and followed Blaise out. The castle corridors were similarly covered in the collected film of dust from misuse, but again, Draco could see past that. He saw grand hallways, sculpted ceilings, and ornate stonework. He wished he remembered attending the school and viewing the building in all of its grandeur.

Bill and Hermione were still in the hall where Blaise and Draco had left them about an hour ago. They were still trying to gain entryway to the Headmaster's office.

"No luck?" Blaise asked.

Bill looked a little bit frazzled. "I'm not going to be able to break it. The wards are too strong. And I can't try any of the more powerful spells because I don't want to bring a lot of attention towards us. I'm surprised we haven't woken anything up yet."

As soon as the words left his mouth, there was a shriek down the hallway.

"Merlin's balls," Bill cursed. "Draco, stay here."

He took off down the hall, Blaise following him. Hermione paused just long enough to make sure that Draco really was staying put, and then followed after them. Draco let them go. He wasn't going to be any help against a goblin or ghost or banshee or whatever it was.

He waited by the gargoyles and gave them a sidelong look. Before they had left for Hogwarts, Bill and the others had set about listing every candy they could think of. Apparently the passwords were usually sweet related.

"Candy is a stupid password to have," Draco told the gargoyles now. He could hear faint yelling from further up in the castle. He could make out a few shouted spells and a few curses of the frustrated kind. Draco propped his arm against one of the gargoyle's head. "Still, I suppose if you're stupid enough to think that Potter's not the Chosen one then -,"

The gargoyle moved underneath his arm, and with a yelp, Draco tumbled back a little. He managed to keep his footing, and whirled around to see the stonewall slide away and a winding staircase appear.

Draco paused for a moment. He knew it probably wasn't wise, heading up the magical staircase on his own, but the others were busy. And Draco wasn't quite sure how long the door would stay open for. And he wasn't sure if it had opened due to what he'd said, or his voice in particular.

So Draco gripped his wand a little tighter and started up the stone staircase. It was a rather tight staircase, circular and winding, and when he reached the top, the wooden door opened easily. Draco cautiously stepped out into the next room.

It was an office, that much was apparent. There was a large, carved wooden desk in the center of the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, cluttered with books and various items that looked like knick-knacks, but could have been the magical equivalent of a bomb as far as Draco could tell. He decided to look rather than touch, stepping close to the shelves and staring so intently he wasn't aware of anyone else in the room until a throat cleared.

Draco whirled around, belatedly remembering to raise his wand and not his fists. There was no one there.

"Over here, Mr. Malfoy," said the voice.

It was a kind voice. Gentle.

Draco cast around and then spotted the portrait hanging on the wall behind the desk. It was dust-covered, but the face behind it was visible. It was an old man with a long white beard and blue eyes that squinted at the corners in good humor.

"Hello," said Draco. He stared at the portrait for a moment longer, trying to get some sort of feel for the Headmaster. He was pre-disposed to dislike the man. He'd based that opinion on knowledge he'd gleaned second hand. That Dumbledore had raised Harry Potter to be the savior of the Wizarding World and then given up on him. That the Order followed him with an unshakeable loyalty that bordered on cultish. That he'd been a powerful wizard in his own right before becoming the Headmaster of a school. But the visage of the wizard was harmless. Comforting even. Like a grandfather.

"It's been a while," said Dumbledore.

"Things have really gone to shit," Draco agreed.

Dumbledore smiled a little. "You appear the most affected, Draco. You're not yourself."

"Wiped my memories," Draco said, and then shrugged. "We're here looking for them."

"Might I inquire as to why you wiped your memories in the first place?"

"I translated the Merlin Code," said Draco.

He could see the surprise on Dumbledore's face. "The Merlin Code."

"Don't suppose you know what it does?" Draco asked.

The portrait tipped his head to the side. "You don't know yourself? Even though you went through all the trouble to erase your memories to do it?"

Draco raised his arms and dropped them in a helpless gesture. "I don't remember a thing, and I didn't leave myself any notes, so…," he trailed off. "But you're supposed to be pretty smart, aren't you? Or are you less smart now that you're a picture?"

"I retain some insights," said Dumbledore, rather enigmatically. It made Draco frown a bit. He was without a memory. He didn't need anymore mysteries.

"The Merlin Code?" he prompted.

"It was a potent form of magic," said Dumbledore. "Some say it was magic itself, just in written form. Merlin himself developed it, and only he could wield it. It was said the runes he used were so powerful that they could survive generations."

"And what does it do?" Draco asked.

"Practically anything you want it to do," said Dumbledore.

"Like pull a horcrux out of Potter?" Draco asked.

Dumbledore paused a moment. "Perhaps," he said finally. "But that would take more than the code. It would take some sort of… exorcism spell to pull it from Harry, and I don't know of any spell with that purpose."

"Is it possible it exists?" Draco asked.

"You may have even found it for all I know," said Dumbledore. "You were looking into horcruxes."

"I was?" Draco asked, surprised.

"You were researching a knife," said Dumbledore. "The one that gave you that scar." He nodded at Draco's arm, and then at the desk. There was a book on the surface. "I was looking into it as well."

"But if I did find the ritual, I won't know it until I have my memories back," said Draco.

"Quite," Dumbledore agreed. "Although you may have had another purpose of deciphering the code."

Draco raised an eyebrow. Dumbledore looked at him, expression severe. "You may have been researching weapons."

"Weapons?"

"What is Merlin known for?" Dumbledore asked.

Draco shrugged. "King Arthur. Camelot. The Sword in the Stone." He paused when Dumbledore smiled. "The Sword in the Stone? Excalibur? Really?"

"Merlin gave Excalibur to King Arthur to help him eradicate England of threats – both magical and non-magical. The sword is a powerful weapon, and although it's been lost to the ages, if you knew the Merlin Code, you could find it and wield it in your battle against Voldemort."

Draco paused for a moment to process that information, but then a piece of Dumbledore's wording snagged at him. "Wait – _my_ battle against Voldemort? You mean Harry's battle, right? If I found a magical sword, I'd give it to him."

Dumbledore said nothing. Draco found himself getting angry. "I'm not the Chosen One."

"You may have come around to my point of view before wiping your memories," Dumbledore said. "Harry can't kill Voldemort as long as the horcrux is in him, not even with Excalibur."

"Then the code is to help pull it out of him," said Draco.

"You're too intelligent to deny that I have a point," said Dumbledore. "And believe me, I don't take this consideration lightly. It devastates me to think that Harry is not the savior. I believed in him, truly, but -,"

"Does belief stop because it gets hard?" Draco interrupted. "Do you stop believing when it becomes inconvenient?"

"All beliefs need reevaluation at times," Dumbledore countered. "To hold a belief without ever questioning it, without ever searching it, is folly."

"Don't confuse questioning with cowardice," Draco snapped back. "It's healthy to question, even to doubt, but if the only reason you are doubting is because you've hit a snag, then you're just giving up."

"It's not a snag; it's an _impasse_."

"A few weeks ago, I had no idea any of this was possible," said Draco, gesturing out at the office. "Magic. Wizards. Witches. Spells and curses. Potions and charms. Unicorns and dragons. It would have sounded impossible to me."

"Don't belittle how much I have tried to make Harry into the Chosen One. I have searched for an answer. I have scoured everything I could."

"Everything _you_ could," Draco said. "You didn't ask anyone else. Don't you think that's giving up too easily? If you truly believed in Harry, you would enlist everyone else's help. But it was easier to think that maybe I was the Chosen One instead. When did you lose faith in him?"

"I never lost faith in him," Dumbledore countered. "If there would be anyone to save the world, it would be Harry Potter. He has the heart for it."

"And I don't," said Draco.

Dumbledore shook his head. "You were always more selfish, more self-serving than Potter."

"So why did you give up on him?"

"Because as much as we live in a world of magic, we do not live in a fairy-tale," said Dumbledore. "The hero of the story is not always the noble one. And the noble one is not always the hero. And the ending is usually more bitter-sweet than happily-ever-after."

Draco paused a moment. "Maybe so," he allowed. "But I don't believe it. Do you know what I do believe in?"

It was a rhetorical question. The Headmaster said nothing.

"Belief," said Draco. "I believe in the power of belief. Humans are the only creatures in the world that can hold onto hope and faith and belief so hard that they end up changing their own destiny. Belief can give life, and take life. It can start wars, and end them. It can make possible what should be impossible. That is true magic, Headmaster. And I still believe in Harry Potter."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, but then he inclined his head.

"That doesn't mean you think I'm right, does it?" Draco asked.

"No," said Dumbledore. "But I've learned something today. I learned that I believe in you, Draco Malfoy. You may be the hero of this story yet."

Draco snorted and turned to leave. Then he turned around and snagged the book off the Headmaster's desk. He left the office and headed down the stairs.

He could hear the others even before the wall swung open. They were trying to get through, no doubt thinking he was trapped inside. He smirked a little at them as he stepped through the office.

Bill grabbed his shoulders. "Draco, are you okay? What happened?"

Draco pushed him back, gently. "I'm fine. The door opened, I found the office, had a philosophical debate with a painting, and then left."

"What's that?" Blaise asked, gesturing to the book in his hands. "Did you find your memories?"

Draco shook his head. "I just picked up some light reading. We can leave. My memories aren't going to be here."

"You're sure?" Ginny asked.

Draco looked around the school, derelict and deserted. He thought of the Headmaster upstairs, and the opposing viewpoints they shared. He didn't feel comfortable here. Draco nodded. "Definitely not here."

He could tell some of them wanted to object. Not because anyone really wanted to search a deserted castle, but because this had been one of the last places to look. They were reluctant to give up.

The group was silent as they filed back out of the castle and started the walk back down to Hogsmeade.

Draco knew they were thinking the same thoughts. They had already searched his chateau in France and found nothing. They were halfway through sorting through Malfoy Manor, and had turned up nothing yet.

They were all frustrated and tired and desperate.

It was just about dinnertime when they made it back to the Manor. Mrs. Weasley was waiting for them in the parlor when they Flooed back. She jumped up to greet them, hopeful and optimistic.

Bill shook his head.

She was disappointed, Draco could tell she was, but she forced a smile anyway. "Well, at least you're all safe and sound." She greeted her boys – Bill and Ron – with a kiss and a gentle swat to get washed up for dinner. Harry got a kiss, no swat. And then she pulled Draco into an embrace and held for a moment.

It felt comforting. Her arms were soft, but strong. She smelled like the food she'd been cooking, fresh bread, baked chicken, and vegetables picked from the garden.

"Don't fret. You'll figure it out," she told him.

Draco squeezed her back and then left for his room, ready the change out of the dust-ridden clothes he was wearing. He pulled on clean casual garments and then hunted for a pair of socks in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. His fingers brushed against something buried beneath the neatly folded socks, something wood and flat, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he'd actually been stupid enough to hide his memories in his sock drawer – and then he wondered if he was doubly stupid for not having found it until now.

He pulled the object out. It turned out to be a picture frame, not a secret container for his memories, and the photo inside was of his parents.

He recognized his parents from the large family portrait hanging in the private library. It was a professional photo, taken when he appeared to be about eleven or so, gawky and sharp-chinned. It was a cold sort of photo. Wizarding pictures moved, but there had been no movement in that portrait, just steely gazes and the occasional slow blink from Draco. His father had looked stern and severe. Narcissa had looked vacant and insipid.

This photo was different. It was a candid photo, and it appeared to have been taken on his parents' wedding day. Lucius was dressed in fine silver robes. He was holding Narcissa's hand, leading her down a set of wide marble steps. Narcissa was in a gown of lace so delicate it appeared to be floating as she moved.

Lucius was looking at Narcissa, and he was smiling, just enough to be obvious. And Narcissa was gazing back at him, something pleased but nervous in her face, like she was afraid it was all too good to be true.

Draco sat on the floor and stared at the photo. No one was telling him much about his parents. He had learned that Lucius was dead – but that his ghost made occasional appearances around Wizarding London. No one knew why or how or where he was. And anytime Draco tried to broach the subject of finding him, his arm was patted or he was given a sympathetic smile.

And when he tried to speak of his mother, the subject was almost immediately changed. Draco had finally annoyed Snape into telling him, rather curtly, that his mother was addicted to pleasure potions and would sell her entire family out for some quick cash. And Snape had made some allusions to abuse, but hadn't exactly come out and said that she was abusive outright, so it just left Draco with more questions than answers.

And that was why he stared at the photo now, because his parents looked… well, normal in the photo. Yes, more reserved than other couples might have been on their wedding day, and probably wearing more jewels and finery than average, but overall, they looked like people. Real people, not some half-dead ghost that his father was now, or some evil step-mother-like character his mother was made out to be.

Draco reached out and gently traced the frame with his fingers. He hadn't been able to learn where his mother was staying, and he doubted anyone would tell him.

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Coming to dinner, Draco?"

That was Ginny at his door. Draco hastily shoved the photo back and pulled out a pair of socks at random.

"Coming!" he called.

He walked with her down to dinner, and spent the meal trying to distract himself with thoughts of his family. It was hard though, because the Weasleys were the epitome of family. They all looked alike. They spoke alike. Their love for each other was blindingly obvious.

Draco found himself getting more and more restless throughout the meal, and he excused himself before dessert under the pretext of wanting to search some more for his memories. He sorted through the second floor music room, and by the time he finished, he knew a great deal about classical music in the wizarding world, but absolutely nothing about himself or his parents.

He went to bed irritated, and woke up early, just as agitated as before. He got out of bed and crossed to the window. The sun would be rising in a few minutes. The sky was getting lighter in the east. He went to the wardrobe, pulled on clothes suitable for a run, and then grabbed his iPod from the top of his dresser.

No one else was awake when he slipped out of the house. He stretched a little bit and surveyed the grounds, tracking out the best route, and when he'd planned it, slipped the earbuds into his ears, cranked up his workout playlist, and started running.

Running had been his release during the months in New York City – and he was pretty sure, by the shape he was in, that it had been his release from the very beginning of translating the code. He ran well, fast and hard and long.

There was something physically pleasurable of working out his body as hard as he worked out his mind, and there was always leftover energy at the end of a long day of decoding. And there was also a great deal of frustration to burn off as well.

So he ran. He ran down towards the stables and then turned up to run by the creek. And then he ran a path through the outer gardens and then through the old orchard. He ran behind the manor and took the path through the woods. There was a slight hill he had to strain to get up – he was a little out of shape for not running these past few weeks. Not that he was physically out of shape. Dueling was a high-intensity workout he hadn't been expecting, but rather he was out of shape for running. He'd ran a half-marathon in New York. He had been training for a full marathon when Bill had found him.

Draco counted the miles now as he ran. One mile, then two, then three. He re-traced his steps, ran up and down the rows of the rose garden, and then lapped the Manor. Four, five, six. He darted out to the woods again, and slowly became aware that he wasn't running alone. There was a big black dog running through the woods as well.

Draco didn't know if it was his dog or not, or maybe a stray dog. The dog appeared to be keeping his distance, so Draco paid it no mind and started back to lap the Manor again.

He was just passing one of the back patios when he noticed the child sitting on the steps.

Draco slowed to a stop and pulled the headphones out of one ear. He gulped in a few breaths of air and then pulled his hands up to his head as a stitch started to form in his side. He stared at the child. The child stared back.

The child was a young boy. His hair was a pale strawberry blonde. Draco didn't know how to guess his age. He was drinking out of a plastic cup with a lid on it. He saw Draco, got up, and walked over. He lifted his drink in offering.

"Juice?" he asked.

"Uh, no, thanks," said Draco.

"You ran a lot," said the boy.

"Yes," said Draco.

"You're really sweaty."

"Yes," said Draco again. "Shouldn't you be inside? With your parents?"

He suddenly realized he didn't know who this child was, or who his parents were, or whether or not they were still alive. Thankfully the child didn't burst into tears. He just shrugged, which meant they were very much alive.

"Mum said I could go out with Sirius."

Draco looked around, but couldn't spot the man anywhere.

"Over there, silly," the boy laughed, and then pointed.

Draco turned and saw the big, black dog bounding up, and then suddenly it wasn't a dog anymore but Sirius Black and the transformation was so suddenly and startling that Draco tripped backwards and ended up on his butt in the grass.

The boy burst into peals of laughter. Draco scowled. He'd read about animaguses, thank you very much, he just hadn't been expecting it.

Sirius laughed as well, a loud guffaw, and then he dropped to the grass as well, looking just as winded as Draco was.

"Didn't peg you for a runner," he told Draco.

Draco shrugged. "Sometimes it helps."

"Did it help today?"

Draco rolled out his shoulders, stretched out his legs, and bent forward to touch his toes. "Too early to tell."

The boy sat down between them and took a drink of his juice. "Mum is making waffles for breakfast. I asked her pacifically."

"Specifically," Sirius corrected.

The boy shrugged, unconcerned. "I like waffles."

"Who's your mum?" Draco asked.

The boy blinked at him, confusion on his face.

"That's Bill and Fleur's eldest, Lukas," Sirius said.

"Oh," said Draco. Bill had said that he had kids, but Draco hadn't seen them yet.

"And you're Draco," said Lukas. "You're my godfather. 'Sephone has Remus as her godfather, and everyone said it was too bad he wasn't my godfather too, because they thought you were dead."

He said it so matter-of-factly that Draco blinked a couple of times. Godfather? Him?

He turned to Sirius for confirmation who nodded.

"I'm your godfather," Draco said to Lukas, just triple-checking.

The boy nodded again.

"And 'Sephone'?"

"Persephone," Sirius corrected. "His sister."

"If you were dead, like Uncle Charlie, do you think Remus would be my godfather too?" Lukas asked. "I like his stories. And his hot chocolate. Sometimes he puts whip cream and marshmallows on it."

Sirius laughed. "Stiff competition in the godfather field. Whip cream and marshmallows. How are you ever going to compete?"

Draco let himself fall back onto the grass. Now that he was stationary, suddenly he was tired. And hungry. "I don't know. I'm a genius and rich. I'm sure I'll think of something." He looked over at Sirius. "What do wizarding kids want?"

Sirius shrugged. "A broom, maybe."

Draco looked over at Lukas. "You want a broom?"

"You better not be bribing my son," a voice cut in. Draco turned his head over to see Bill joining them, a mug of coffee in hand. "You look like you just ran to Diagon Alley, Draco."

"Just around the yard," said Draco.

"Over a dozen kilometers, I'd say," said Sirius.

Bill looked at Draco. His brow was knit. "Why?"

Draco heaved a sigh. "Why do you think?"

Bill looked a little bit stricken, and Draco hadn't meant to make him feel bad, so he forced a smile and heaved himself up. "I'm going to shower. See you at breakfast."

He headed back to his room, and if he lingered in the shower longer than usual, he told himself it was because he was really sweaty and not because he was trying to delay another day of pointless searching. He finally headed down the breakfast. There were indeed waffles, although Lukas and the other children dined separately from the Order members. Draco snagged a waffle and then piled his plate with eggs and ham. He nearly dropped the plate when Bill spoke up.

"We may need to consider the possibility that Draco's memories aren't here."

"Seconded," Draco said quickly, relieved someone else was realizing what he was.

"We've made a list," said Hermione. "It makes sense."

"We may need to think more creatively," said Bill.

Draco took a seat next to Ginny. She was looking pensive.

"Where else can we look?" Fred asked.

"We don't know anywhere else," George said.

"What about people?" Hermione asked. "People who knew Draco when he was younger who might know if he had a favorite spot or place."

Draco sat up a little. His parents, surely. They would be the ones to ask.

"Blaise may have some suggestions," said Bill. "Or maybe Pansy."

"Blaise is still sleeping," said Ron. "And Pansy's out."

"We'll catch them later," said Bill. "If they can think of anyone, it'd be useful."

"What about Percy?" Ginny asked.

Her words were met with an uncomfortable sort of silence.

Ginny shrugged a little. "Draco and Percy worked together on a few things. Fudge's assassination. Kingsley's election. It's possible he might have some suggestions."

"Yeah, but who actually wants to go talk to the git?" Fred asked.

"Not I," said George.

"I doubt we'll need his assistance," Arthur said stiffly.

"Ginny's got a point," said Bill. "We'll need all the suggestions we can get."

"I'd go, but I've got work today," said Ginny. "Anyone else free to take Draco?"

"I'm pretty sure I could get there myself," said Draco.

"I could go," Harry offered.

"No," said Bill, shaking his head. "I'll go." He looked over at Draco. "Let's leave in an hour."

Draco nodded, but couldn't help but notice Bill looked less than thrilled as the prospect of visiting his younger brother.

OoOoOoOoO

"Assistant? You have visitors in the lobby."

Percy looked up from his paperwork and frowned. "Visitors?" Who the hell would be visiting him? For a brief moment, he wondered if it was Pansy, but ever since he revealed he knew about her daughter, Pansy had vanished.

Well, not vanished. Percy knew where his niece was living. A cute little coastal village in Scotland, as far away from the mess of the war as possible. He was tempted to travel there himself. He was desperate to see Charlie's daughter. He wanted to know how much of Charlie remained. Did she have the Weasley hair? Did she have Charlie's eyes or nose? Was she healthy?

But Percy knew it wouldn't be Pansy. And Deanna had said visitors, plural. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Your brother Bill and Draco Malfoy."

Percy put down his paperwork. "Draco Malfoy," he said.

"Shall I send them up?"

Percy was going to say yes. It was instinctual to say yes and just deal with the disapproving glares and unhappy frowns. He was used to allowing his family in only to have them turn their backs on him. He stopped himself. "Show Mr. Malfoy up. My brother can wait."

Deanna looked a little curious, but she nodded. She left with a brisk stride and Percy put his paperwork down, careful not to shuffle the loose pages and lose his place. He glanced over to Kingsley's desk. The Minister was currently in a meeting. He wouldn't be back for another hour or so. That would afford them privacy at least. Percy didn't think Draco Malfoy would be here for anything less than vital importance, and it would be best to keep it secret.

Deanna appeared only a few minutes later with Draco Malfoy in tow. Percy hadn't thought he'd ever use that descriptor, 'in tow', to describe Draco Malfoy. He had always been a striding force, but here he was now, gaping around at his surroundings, trailing after the secretary and not quite keeping up.

"Would you close the door behind you?" Percy asked Deanna.

She nodded, ushered Draco in, and then gently shut the door, leaving them in privacy. Percy gestured to the chair in front of his desk and Draco took a seat.

"I've been informed you lost your memories," Percy started.

"News travels fast," said Draco, shrugging a little and sitting back in the seat. No, _slouched_ in the seat.

"Bad news, certainly," said Percy.

Draco laughed a bit, also disconcerting. "I heard you and your family don't get along."

"And now that we've both established we can state the obvious, I suppose we can move onto something a little more relevant," said Percy curtly, not quite appreciating the reference to his family.

Draco's eyes flicked over him, like Percy was an extra piece he was trying to fit into a puzzle. Percy carefully stacked his paperwork onto a corner of the desk, measuring the distance to the edge with his fingertips. He liked his desk to be accessible to him even without his glasses. He leaned over the cleared area.

"What are you here for?"

Draco shrugged. "I was told we got along, back when I had my memories."

"We had a working relationship."

"A good one?"

"It was satisfactory," Percy said.

Draco grinned a little. "From what I gather, we're two peas in pod. Sorry, I have to ask, is that why they don't like you?"

Percy's fingers drifted around his desk, an obsessive-compulsive need to straighten and double-check that everything was in its place. A stress reaction to Draco's question, even though he knew Draco was asking something else entirely. "Are you really here to discuss my relationship with my family?"

"It was suggested that you may have some idea where my memories are," Draco said.

Percy paused for a moment. "I didn't know you that well." His fingers slid over a stray paperclip. He stuck it back into the small bowl on his desk. "Where have you looked so far?"

Draco frowned at him for a moment and then his eyebrows shot up. "Your glasses let you see? That's amazing. How do they work? Is the visual defect in your eyes or your brain?"

Percy sat back, startled. "How did you - ?"

Draco gestured at his desk. "You don't look at what you're doing. Most people do. And you measure the space between objects on your desk. So… you're blind, right? And the glasses give you sight?"

"Of course," said Percy. He let out a sigh. "Of all the people to notice, it's you."

He could see Draco pause at that, and knew the young man was drawing conclusions.

"Your family doesn't know," Draco surmised.

"No," Percy agreed.

"So it happened recently," said Draco. "Most likely during that Ministry battle everyone keeps talking about. But you're not saying anything to them about it."

"And you won't either," said Percy. "That information is confidential. Now would you care to elaborate on how I can help you with your memories?"

He could tell Draco had more questions. It was apparent in the way he hesitated, and then shrugged.

"We've looked everywhere they've thought of," said Draco. "Hogwarts, my home in France, we're halfway through the Manor, but I don't think my memories are kept there. We're running out of ideas, so they thought I should ask other people that know me."

Percy shook his head a little in exasperation. "I don't understand why they'd send you here of all places when there's someone who knows you much better than I."

Draco leaned in, a look of eagerness on his face that looked out of place. "Who?"

"Your father," said Percy.

Draco tipped his head to the side. "He's dead."

"Not entirely," said Percy. "Have Ginny contact him. She knows how."

"What?" Draco demanded.

Percy shrugged. "I don't know how, but she can. My family won't like it of course. They have a particular bland of distaste for Lucius Malfoy." He paused a moment, and then when Draco didn't ask, he prompted, "Are you going to ask me or not?"

Draco sat back in his chair, looking a little impressed. "You're quick."

"You're still not asking," said Percy. "And I'm a busy man."

"How is it, if you're so much like me, that your family doesn't like you?" Draco asked.

Percy shook his head. "Wrong question."

"How is it," Draco tried again, "that if I'm so much like you, your family still likes me? Or are they faking it?"

"You weren't raised a Weasley," said Percy. "They have different expectations for you, different… allowances."

"So they don't like me," said Draco.

Percy shook his head. "No, I'm sure they do. It's just… they recognize that you're going to be different. That you'll have different opinions and different values. But to be raised in a Weasley family, and to openly disagree… well, that's the ultimate sin. I'm pretty sure my family would like me more if I weren't related to them as well."

He couldn't tell if Draco was comforted by his words or not.

Draco shook his head. "Well, if we're really the same, and knowing what I know about who I was with my memories, I'm pretty sure you're creating half of your own problems. You could have brought Bill up."

Percy suddenly had a vision of Draco revealing his blindness with Bill in the room. What would Bill do? What would he say? He was sure his older brother would feel terrible. He was sure that his entire family would come running to him.

Half of Percy wanted to see them rushing towards him, words of apologies on their lips, expressions of guilt on their faces. Half of Percy wanted them to never know, and to take his anger to the grave, the ultimate act of defiance.

Percy sighed and rubbed at his temples. "I'm not so much creating my problems as I am avoiding them. And our conversation is to remain confidential, is that clear?"

Draco stood and nodded. "Not my place to tell," he said.

Percy let out a breath. "Thank you. And best of luck to you, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco inclined his head. "Assistant Minister."

He left the office. Percy watched him leave, looked back at his paperwork, and then sighed. He needed a cup of coffee.

oOoOoOoOo

Oh goodness, it is late at night. I can't proof-read anymore. But, you all were so nice in pointing out my rather silly typo the chapter before, so hopefully you'll do it again if I do something equally as ridiculous. Please leave a review on your way out!


	13. Family Encounters

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do own a television now. I've been glued to the Olympics, which is why this is late, lol.

Author's Note: Lucius is back!

OoOoOoOoO

 **Three and a half years ago…**

Draco woke up knowing something was wrong. His head throbbed. His thoughts felt heavy and cumbersome. His eyes took a moment to open, like his neurons were on a three-second delay. He blinked, eyelids sticking slightly, and took in his surroundings. He'd never seen this room before.

Well – that is, he didn't remember seeing this room before. He was aware that he kept losing his memory. He was aware that he kept moving cities. He could have seen this room before, he supposed, but the fact that he was currently tied to a wooden chair made him think he'd been kidnapped and taken to some secret location.

Vague memories started drifting back to him. Dark figures. Flashes of light. Something hitting him in the chest. It hadn't been an object. It'd been a red, sparkly light with some unknown force behind it. A ray gun of some sort? A new type of taser?

He'd blacked out right afterwards.

And now he was awake in this room. It was windowless, bare walls and floors. There was a table in the room, a couple of feet across from the chair he was tied to, and a closed door. Nothing else.

Draco tried to pull against the bonds, but as soon as he pressed against the ropes, they constricted, almost on their own, tightening hard enough to bruise. Draco immediately stopped struggling. He craned his neck, trying to see the bonds, but his arms were caught up behind him, lashed to the back of the chair, and he couldn't get a good look.

The door was flung open.

Draco jerked his head up, startled. A woman entered, rather dramatically. She was ginning madly. Her hair was a tangle of black curls, lightly streaked with gray. Her eyes were just as dark. Her skin paper-pale. She wore a black robe and the only pop of color was her red mouth and her long, pointed nails, painted the color of blood. ,She carried a stick in her hand – some sort of carved, wooden wand.

"Thought you could hide from me, Draco?" she asked, voice pitched high, taunting.

"Who are you?" Draco demanded. "What do you want?"

"Obviously I want whatever it is you're working on," said the woman. She sauntered in close, stopping right in front of him, and then she bent down. Her hands grabbed his chin and pulled his face up to hers. Her nails bit into his jaw. "You've been gone for so long. Your Auntie Bellatrix was worried."

Draco was pretty sure she was referring to herself in the third person. She had the sort of crazed look about her that said she'd totally call herself by her own name. He was still surprised at the family connection. He blinked up at her. "You're my _aunt_?"

"Don't play coy, Draco. What does the Order have you working on?"

The words didn't make sense to him. He shook his head. "Look, Ms. Bellatrix, I have no idea what you're talking about. In fact, I don't even know who you are."

She rolled her eyes, pointed the wooden stick at him, and said, "Crucio!"

Invisible fire washed over him.

Draco jerked backwards, screaming at the sudden pain. He barely realized that he'd knocked the chair over. It splintered underneath him, the ropes melting away, but he was only aware he was free of the bond when his limbs flailed, trying to escape the pain.

The fire stopped just as abruptly as it had begun. Draco caught his breath, gasping and shaking and completely horrified. He shrank back as Bellatrix took a step towards him.

"Are you ready to talk?"

Draco pulled in a breath. "I swear I have no idea who you are. I don't know what you're talking about." She raised the stick again. Draco felt panic well up. "I swear I don't –," he cut off as she waved the stick again.

"Crucio!"

Fire.

Draco screamed. He dropped back on the floor, body jerking, trying to escape. He screamed because of the pain and because he didn't understand what was happening. He didn't understand how she had such power over his body, to make his nerve endings light up and _burn_.

The pain stopped. Draco pushed himself to the back wall, his limbs shaking and trembling. He stared at the woman, eyes wide and an unbelievable thought taking hold in his brain. He looked at the stick in her hand. _Wand_ , he suspected. He lifted his gaze to the woman's face.

"Is that… magic?"

She paused. Her head tilted to the side. Her dark eyes studied him. "You aren't yourself. What have you done?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't know. I don't remember."

"Memory spell," she said.

Draco let out a breath of disbelief. Memory spell? What the hell was that? Was it even possible?

No, of course it wasn't possible. He was scared. And in pain. His mind was latching onto unrealistic possibilities.

Bellatrix knelt down in front of him and scooted forward. Draco flinched back, hitting the wall, no where to go. Her face pressed close to his and he turned away, bracing himself for more pain. He could feel her breath against his cheek. She laughed and then pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before pulling back a couple of inches. Draco carefully turned his head to her.

"I'll tell you everything you forgot," she said. "I know you. I know who you are."

Draco felt a burst of hope in his chest even though part of him recognize that this woman couldn't be trusted. "Who am I?"

"Tell me what you're working on," said Bellatrix.

"I don't know," he protested.

She scoffed and pulled a journal out of her robes. His journal.

"It won't open for me," she said. "It must be charmed to respond to you only. Won't you tell your favorite aunt what's inside?"

Draco leaned his head back against the wall. "It has instructions."

"Yes," said Bellatrix, eagerly. "What instructions?"

"It says I'm not safe. It says there are people who are after me. It says I'm in danger." Draco tipped his head down to look at the woman. "You're the danger, aren't you?"

She laughed, a forced, light-hearted sounded. "Why, my dear nephew, whatever would make you say that?"

"You did just kidnap me," Draco pointed out. "You tortured me."

Her eyes glittered in dark amusement. "Torture? That? A little bit of a crucio spell?" She laughed again, but this one was genuine. "I haven't _begun_ to torture you. Up until now, I've been kind. Gentle, even. I have given you a chance to co-operate with me. Tell me what I want to know. What have you been working on?"

Draco sucked in a breath. He didn't know what he was working on. He knew it was a code of sorts, a language, maybe. He knew he could tell her that, spare himself some pain, but it was very clear she was the villain in this story. He didn't know what the story was – or what his part was in it – but he knew he couldn't tell her.

He shook his head. "No."

Her lips slowly spread into a cruel smile. "Oh, Draco, I was almost hoping you'd say that. You see, I have a favor to return to you. It's my turn in our game of pain." She leaned in, her hands reaching out to his neck. Draco grabbed her forearms, not pushing her away, because he knew it'd be pointless, but keeping her at as much of a distance as he could. "You nearly killed me once."

Draco blinked a little, not quite sure what to say to that. He'd tried to kill her? Why? What had been the circumstances? What had she done?

Or had he made erroneous assumptions? Was he the bad guy?

"Before you tried to kill me, you tortured me," she said. "You broke my bones. You tore off my fingernails. You turned my blood into crystals while it still flowed through my veins."

Draco stared at her, horrified. He shook his head, because it wasn't possible. She just laughed. "Oh, little Draco. I'm going to have fun with you." She pressed the stick against his shoulder. "Ignatius."

It felt as if she had driven a knife into his shoulder. Draco yelled. He tried to push her away, tried to squirm away from the wand, but she kept it digging into his skin, the spell or magic or whatever it was piercing far deeper, almost through bone. And then it seemed to spread, traveling through his veins like acid.

His shout became a scream. His struggle became writhing. His body rocked back, his head snapping into the wall, and then she finally pulled her wand away.

Draco slumped back, slipping down the wall to collapse on the ground. His hand automatically went to his shoulder and he felt blood, hot and wet, flowing from the wound. He pressed his palm tighter to his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"Feel like talking now?" Bellatrix asked. She rose to tower over him. Her eyes watched him dispassionately, the way someone might study a fly missing a wing.

Draco tried pushing himself up. She stepped on him – just like someone might step on a fly missing a wing – right over his shoulder. He strangled on the next scream.

She held the journal up over him. "Well?"

She dropped it down, more like tossed it down on his chest. It hit, and bounced just a little. Draco could see where it has already picked up his blood on the back cover. It settled on his chest, and then suddenly seemed to take on a glow.

"No!" Bellatrix shouted.

He could see her wave her wand, but a bright, white light shot out of the journal and enveloped Draco. He had just enough time to think 'What now?' and then it felt as if he was being hooked behind his naval and tugged – and suddenly the room was disappearing around him. He understood that somehow the journal was magic too. And it was rescuing him.

OoOoOoOoO

 **Present day…**

Draco considered the photo in his hands, the one he had pulled from the sock drawer. His parents stared out at him, dressed in their wedding clothes. Something told him that what he was about to do was going to open Pandora's box, that once he took this next step, he was going to come face-to-face with the dark secret of his family life that everyone seemed to be trying to hide from him.

He let out a breath and flopped back onto his bed. The door to his bedroom opened.

"You lied at dinner," Ginny said.

He heard her come in, but couldn't see her from this angle. He stared up at the ceiling as she climbed up on the bed next to him.

"I told the truth," Draco said.

"You said Percy didn't say much when you visited him," Ginny said.

That's what Draco had told the Order over dinner. There had been some eye-rolling and some scathing comments had been whispered under their breaths. Part of Draco wanted to tell them about Percy, specifically his blindness, because it seemed to him that everyone was operating under miscommunications and half-assed assumptions, and frankly, that level of miscommunication was disconcerting. There was a war on. There wasn't room for that sort of drama. But Draco had said nothing. He'd just asked Ginny to stop by later.

Draco turned his head and looked at her. She was fresh from a shower, hair wet and braided back, skin still pink and smelling of flowers and spice. "He didn't say much, but what he did say was pretty interesting."

Ginny raised her eyebrows.

"Percy told me you could contact my father."

Ginny paused. "Did he now?"

"Seemed to imply that you've done it before. Have you?"

Ginny let out a bit of a sigh, but then pulled a necklace out from underneath the t-shirt she wore. "Your father gave me this one Christmas. It's a ward of sorts. I've been successful in reaching him before."

"Even though he's dead?"

"He's not entirely dead," said Ginny.

Draco laughed, a line from a movie coming to the forefront of his mind. " _Mostly_ dead." She didn't get the reference. That was okay. Draco rolled up to a sitting position. "Percy said I should talk to my father. What do you think?"

"It makes sense," Ginny allowed, without hesitating at all. "I had been hoping though… I had hoped your memories wouldn't be with Lucius."

Draco frowned. "Is he that bad?"

"He loves you," Ginny said. "Or rather… he comes close to loving you. That is… your relationship is hard to explain."

"So I gather," Draco said, rather dryly.

Ginny made a bit of a face in her frustration. "I saw you two go at it one time. It was right after you found out… well, suffice it to say, you were angry at him. We had dinner, all of us together, and you and your father spent the entire meal trying to hurt each other with nothing more than insults and well-placed threats."

Draco made a face. "Doesn't sound healthy."

"Definitely not," Ginny agreed. "But at the same time, as it was happening, all I could think was… if you're trying so desperately to prove you have the power to hurt each other, then there must be a layer of genuine affection for each other."

"That's looing at things rather nicely," said Draco.

Ginny reached out and caught his hands. "I don't think it's a bad idea to contact Lucius. I do think the Order will be worried, and concerned. Maybe overly worried and concerned. We might want to ask forgiveness and skip over permission."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Keeping it a secret, huh?"

"We'll tell Bill. He should be there."

Draco nodded. "What you think is best."

"I think you're the best," said Ginny, and she leaned in and pressed a kiss against his lips.

Draco returned it, eagerly, but she pulled away shortly after. As much as she had reassured him that she didn't feel it was cheating on him to kiss him, he couldn't help but notice that physical contact was kept relatively chaste. He didn't know if that was because their relationship hadn't progress that far, if wizards had conservative morals, or if she really was uncomfortable with him.

She went back to her room and Draco lay back on his bed and turned the photo over once more in his hands. Another night of mystery, and perhaps in the morning, he'd be told where his memories were.

He wondered, just for a moment as he slipped into slumber, if he might be better off not remembering. He dreamed of pain in his shoulder, and dark laughter above him. He woke, groggy and confused, with sunlight just beginning to slip through the curtains. There was the faintest of buzzes occurring in steady intervals beyond his door. That was what had woken him up.

Draco rolled out of bed and stumbled into the shower. The buzzing was all that got through the charmed dampeners on the room. The emergency beacon was going off, calling out members of the Strike Team. There was an attack somewhere in London.

And Draco was useless the way he was.

He was going to have to get his memories back – even if he was going to uncover unpleasant ones.

Still, he was preoccupied with thoughts of just how horrible his memories might be. What had he seen? Who had he been? What had he done? He knew he was not a true hero, like Harry Potter. If anything, he was more the anti-hero. He understood that he'd been cold and aloof and not entirely kind. What sort of person would he become? Or rather, re-become?

The buzzing had stopped by the time he exited the shower. He dressed and headed down to the dining room that doubled as the Order briefing room. Bill was there, listening to the radio, his breakfast pushed to the side.

"Everything alright?" Draco asked.

Bill sighed. "Everything's pretty much over now. The London train was attacked. The Death Eaters were going after property damage and the transit lines more than they were interested in fighting. The Strike Teams will help with clean up."

There had been a lot of those attacks recently. The Death Eaters had gotten good at inflicting damage and then fleeing the scene. The financial toll they were taking on the country was an effective offense, and it occurred with little cost to themselves.

Draco exchanged a look with Bill and then diverted for the buffet table. The serving dishes were charmed to keep the food warm. It appeared, by the amount of food left, that not all Strike Team Members had managed to eat before being called out. He dished out a plate of eggs and toast and then went to sit by Bill.

"I may have lied to you the other day," he said.

Bill turned to him, not looking surprised at all. "I'm impressed that you're telling me so quickly."

"So I lie a lot," Draco surmised.

"You're… secretive," said Bill.

"Manipulative?" Draco asked.

"Sometimes. What did you lie about this time?"

"Meeting Percy. He had an idea."

Now Bill looked surprised. "Percy?"

"You do know he's quite smart, don't you?" Draco asked, just checking.

"Percy's _intelligent_ ," Bill said, like he was differentiating between something.

Draco let out an irritated breath of air. "Well, anyway, your _intelligent_ brother suggested I talk to my father."

Bill balked a little. "Lucius?"

"What do you think?" Draco asked.

Several expressions crossed Bill's face. Draco was able to read most of them. There was an immediate reaction of aversion, then concern. Then something that Draco couldn't quite read, and then Bill's expression settled into reluctant consideration.

"I see you already told him," Ginny said, coming into the room. She immediately walked to the coffee pot and poured herself a mug. She joined them at the table.

"How did he suggest we find Lucius?" Bill asked.

Draco turned to Ginny. She gave her older brother an apologetic look. "I may be able to contact Lucius."

Bill's eyebrows rose. "I know he rescued you five years ago, but… you can still contact him?"

Ginny nodded. "I called him, a year ago, when we thought Percy was in trouble at the Ministry."

"You – what?" Bill asked. He obviously hadn't known about this.

Ginny shrugged. "Apparently it wasn't necessary. But he still came."

Draco bit back the impulse to say that, as Percy had ended up blind, it might have been very necessary indeed. But it wasn't his place to say anything, so he redirected to the logistics of calling his father. "Should we call now?"

Bill sighed. "Let me finished breakfast first. Then we'll meet in… well, I guess the best place would be the master study. Say, ten o'clock?"

Draco nodded. It actually wouldn't hurt to have some time to prepare. He wasn't quite sure what to say to his father. Hello, perhaps? Sorry to hear you died?

The questions distracted him throughout breakfast, even as the Strike Team returned, smelling of smoke and a little ashy, but overall in good health. Draco excused himself soon after and made his way straight to the master study. He had searched through the room back when they still thought his memories were hidden in the Manor. He'd been told it was Lucius's study, and that it'd been kept the same.

He took a turn about the room now, eyes flicking to the décor and knickknacks that were displayed about the room. He tried to imagine why each piece had been gathered, and tried to draw deductions about the sort of man who would collect the pieces. He had no luck. He slumped into a chair and tried brooding for a few moments. Restlessness got him back up to his feet. He browsed the bookshelves and pulled down a couple of tomes. He flipped through the pages, but his mind was to busy for him to retain any of the information. He gave up and stalked to the window. His fingers tapped together, a nervous sort of habit, his thumb touching first his index finger, then the ring finger, then the middle and pinky.

Ginny and Bill came in together. They were early. It was only quarter of ten. No one said anything at first. Draco bounced a little on his feet, and then turned to Ginny. "Do it."

She pulled the necklace out from under his shirt and closed her hand around it. She closed her eyes. Her lips moved silently.

Draco braced himself.

Nothing happened.

Ginny opened her eyes, glanced around, and then shrugged. "Sometimes it takes a while."

Draco let out a breath. He turned to the window, his fingers still tapping. He could hear Bill and Ginny conversing quietly behind him. He didn't bother listening in, just scanned the landscape outside, wanting something to distract him, wanting something to –

"Really, Miss Weasley," proclaimed a low, droll voice, "you are obviously in no danger."

Draco whipped around.

Lucius Malfoy was standing profile to him, facing Ginny. He looked like his pictures. White-blond hair, perfectly brushed, cascading to his shoulders. Fair skin, high forehead, sharp nose. His eyes were the color of steel. His robes were deep green and he carried a silver cane. His face was composed with only the faintest hints of condescension on his features.

Ginny turned towards Draco, and Lucius followed her gaze. His cold eyes latched onto Draco and he paused. There was something uncomfortable about Lucius's gaze, something that made Draco feel like he was completely exposed, completely vulnerable. He shifted on his feet, not knowing what to do or say, but wanting to make a good impression. And then he inwardly said, ' _fuck it_.'

"Hey, dad," he said, outright and blunt.

He immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. Lucius didn't recoil, not outright, but something shuttered in his expression and his cold gaze seemed to grow even frostier.

"So… we're not on that level," Draco said, refusing to feel awkward, refusing to feel ashamed, refusing to feel anything because –

Well, because he'd been told Lucius was an asshole – granted, not in so many words – but he refused to feel as if he was somehow less than his father, refused to feel like he was trying to impress his father. Even though he desperately wanted his father to like him. To love him.

"Mon dieu," Lucius said, his voice flat. He strode towards Draco, his steps quick and purposeful, and Draco instinctively took one step backwards, but that was all he managed before Lucius was in front of him.

His father reached out. His hand grabbed his chin, and Draco wanted to lash out, or step back, or get him off, but suddenly he was frozen. And then his eyes were right there, burning into him. Draco saw nothing reflected in Lucius' eyes, and he wondered if he'd ever been able to read his father's eyes, wondered if it was even possible to read that blank mask.

"Dragon," said Lucius – and Draco knew that wasn't his name. He wondered if that was in nickname, or an insult, or a term of endearment. He wasn't sure.

"What have you done to yourself?" Lucius asked. It wasn't a question, not really, more of a rhetorical question, or an idle statement.

"Wiped my memories," Draco answered, honestly and truthfully. "I don't remember you."

The grip on his chin loosed a bit, and then Lucius reached up and brushed the side of his face. "I hardly recognize you." Lucius stepped back. There was a slight softening to his features. "You've been gone for some time. Rumor had it that Bellatrix killed you."

Draco's hand went to his shoulder. Lucius tracked the motion. "Not quite," Draco said.

Lucius's gaze sharpened. "I see."

His voice hadn't changed inflection, but Draco suddenly felt a little nervous. Lucius was dangerous, he knew that much.

"And what made you take such drastic measures as wiping your own memories?" Lucius asked. His voice arched, ever so slightly.

"I translated the - ," Draco stopped, because Bill was shaking his head behind Lucius.

Lucius followed his gaze and smirked a little. "You were saying?" he prompted.

Draco hesitated. Lucius's mouth tightened. "You'd keep secrets from your own father, Draco?" His voice dropped a little lower.

"I don't know you," Draco said, a little bit lamely.

Lucius stepped forward, crowding his space. "Then why have you called me?"

Draco tried not to edge backwards, but it was hard not to fold under Lucius's intense gaze. "I can't find my memories."

Lucius smiled, a predatory sort of grin. "You don't know yourself, that was why you called me. You thought I would know."

"Is there a place he visited often as a child?" Bill asked, cutting in. There was a sharpness to his tone that said he wasn't pleased with Lucius's presence.

Lucius didn't even glance towards Bill. He kept his gaze on Draco. "Your brother's grave held special meaning to you."

"Brother?" Draco asked.

Lucius let out a silent breath. "How much you've lost." He reached out again and let his hand drop on Draco's head. "This is who you would be without me." He laughed a little, but there was no amusement in it. "So… careless."

"Excuse me?" Draco demanded.

Lucius laughed again and stepped back. "So ardent." And then he turned away and looked back at the others. "You were right to call. Visit his brother's grave. He might have stored them there. Now, if that were the only crisis I was called to deal with today, I do have other plans."

He swept up his robes, like he intended to leave, and Draco realized he had been dismissed. No, worse than dismissed. He'd been uninteresting.

"What if they're not there?" he demanded.

Lucius looked back at him, one eyebrow quirked, as if he hadn't quite heard Draco.

Draco glared. He knew Lucius had heard him. "What if my memories aren't there?" he repeated. "Then what?"

"You prided yourself on being a genius," said Lucius. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Draco was being dismissed again. To hell with subtle.

"So that's it?" Draco asked, raising his arms a little. "A quick hello, hey visit your dead brother, and then you're on your way?"

Lucius turned back to him. "You're not my son." Draco felt anger spark, but Lucius continued before he could interject. "You have no memory of me. I do not recognize you. What were you expecting? A family reunion?"

Hurt struck Draco deep. He responded by striking at a target he hypothesized would be the best to hit. "For a family reunion, Narcissa would have to be here, wouldn't she? Maybe if you're out of ideas, I could ask her."

Lucius was suddenly in front of him again, and his finger was pressing into his chest. "Do not," Lucius snarled. "You will not visit that woman." Lucius turned towards Bill, still keeping his finger prodding into Draco's sternum. "You told me you would keep him safe."

 _Safe_? Why would his mother be unsafe?

"I have," said Bill. "As much as it was possible."

"Continue to do so," Lucius commanded. He turned back to Draco, his gaze re-assessing. "Narcissa cannot give you anything you need." He drew back, straightening his robes. "You will inform me when you are yourself again."

It was commanding and presumptuous. Draco held his gaze, not ready to promise anything. Lucius gave the slightest of smiles, and then he seemed to melt out of the air and vanished.

Draco blinked at the abruptness of his exit.

"He does that," Ginny said.

Draco let out a breath. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Is that… is that him?"

Of course he knew it was Lucius Malfoy. He just needed to know if that was how he always behaved.

"That's him," Bill said.

"How did it go?" Draco asked, because he honestly wasn't sure.

"I think about as well as it always does," said Ginny. "He always seems to win, but you manage to hold your own."

"And my brother's grave?"

"In France," said Bill.

Draco groaned, because of course it was. It meant a delay as they waited for travel papers.

"I'll put in the request for our trip," said Bill.

He left and Draco dropped into a chair. He felt oddly drained. Ginny came over to perch on the arm of the chair.

"I grew up with that?" Draco asked.

She hummed a little. "Gives you a little bit of insight, doesn't it?"

Draco felt he could have done without the insight.

OoOoOoOo

Bill sat in the green parlor, a glass of Scotch in hand. The green parlor was a small room, tucked away on the first floor, right across the hall from the stairs to the dungeons. It was a comfortable room, full of mismatched furniture that looked like it had been moved out of sight after falling out of fashion. He and Snape retired there when they needed to vent about the aggravations of running a vigilante organization in the middle of a civil war. There was an unspoken agreement that when the light was on, signaling one of them was inside, the other had to attend.

He sipped the Scotch, made a face, and took another sip.

"Drinking it more won't make you like it," said Snape, coming into the room. He smelled of smoke, incense, and something unpleasantly acrid. His fingers were stained blue with whatever potion he'd been brewing.

Severus poured himself some of the same drink. They were gradually sipping their way through all of the offerings of the Malfoy liquor cabinet. They weren't even halfway through yet. Bill watched as Severus sampled a taste. As a Potion's Master, Severus had a well-developed palate and he appreciated a wider range of beverages than Bill did.

Severus made a thoughtful noise and then took his usual seat in the armchair next to Bill. "What brings you to the sweat and tears room today?"

"Well, we called Lucius," Bill admitted.

Severus took a slow sip of Scotch. "I suppose it was unavoidable. How is Lucius these days?"

"Remarkably the same for a dead man," said Bill.

"And Draco?"

"Fared rather well."

"Lucius does tend to pull his punches with Draco."

"Draco mentioned Narcissa."

Severus winced.

"Lucius seemed more worried than irritated," Bill said.

"He must recognize Draco isn't himself."

"He said Draco wasn't his son."

Severus dropped his head into his hand. "I have worked as a Potion's Master for over two decades now, but I swear, it is the Malfoys and their family drama that will give me my first gray hair."

"They are remarkably dramatic for a family that eschews most emotions, aren't they?" Bill mused. He took a larger sip of Scotch. He still didn't like it, but at least he was getting a warm feeling in his stomach.

"I hope you at least got a viable suggestion from him," Snape said.

"Lucius suggested Lukas's grave."

Severus nodded. "Seems possible. Did you request international travel?"

"Just sent in the paperwork," Bill said. He took one more gulp and then blurted out the question he'd been wondering for a while now. "Do you think Draco would be better off if he didn't get his memories back?"

"Ah," said Severus. "The great philosophical debate. Is it better to be ignorant and blissful, or wise and miserable?"

"I wouldn't say miserable," said Bill, "but otherwise, yes. That's my question. He's so… ,"

"Vibrant," Severus provided. "Without the rigors of his Pureblood upbringing, he doesn't stifle himself. But does that equate happiness?"

"It might be healthier," said Bill.

"It probably is healthier," Severus said. "But if now the question is health, can he truly be healthy without any founding memories?"

"He's in for a world of pain when he gets his memories back," Bill said. "I know his childhood was difficult, and I know there is more he hasn't told me, and is it wrong to want to spare him that?"

"Of course not."

"He is happier without that past. I know he is."

"But what past do you leave him with?" Severus countered. "His earliest memory now is waking up in a random city, not knowing who he is or if he has a home. His past is now confusion, fear, and loneliness. Of constant danger and vigilance. Terror, even."

Bill thought back to when he'd first found Draco. The gun that Draco had on him. The locks on the door. The fear in his eyes.

"His childhood was not ideal," Severus continued, "but he knew who he was. And he knew he had a home. And as much as Lucius was not the best father, he did care for Draco. Would you deny him that piece of happiness that he does have?"

Bill sighed. "No. I wouldn't."

"And you are forgetting the most important piece of this question," said Severus.

Bill turned to him.

"Draco himself," said Severus. "He's been frustrated with the search for his memories, yes. He's been irritated and restless, but he hasn't stopped yet. He knows what he is missing, and he wants to reclaim that piece, the good and the bad. Trust him. If he doubts, we will listen. Until then, we follow his lead."

Bill let his words sink in. There was truth in them, that he knew. He raised his glass in Severus's direction. "You're a smart man, Severus."

Severus clinked his glass against Bill's. "If I was smart, I would have moved away from this whole mess."

Bill laughed and downed the rest of the Scotch.

OoOoOoOo

Yay! Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!


	14. Another Side to the Story

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Alas.

OoOoOoOoO

 **Five years ago…**

Draco stared at the house. He tried to make sense of it, but it was so outside of his realm of expectations that he couldn't quite grasp the reality of the situation.

Desperation had brought him here. That was the only reason he had come. He needed as a safe place to store his memories – a place no one would think of – a place so obviously _wrong_ no one would suspect it. Not even the Dark Lord.

No one would suspect him to leave his memories with Sam and Laney. Doing so would endanger his sister-in-law and his niece. But if Draco decided to use that assumption in his favor, and choose to hide his memories with them, well… he'd be doing exactly what he didn't want to do in the first place. So they were out.

But there was another wrong choice he could use to his favor. There was another place he could hide his memories that no one would expect. And he was here now.

Draco had planned on leaving his memories somewhere in the property of the house, somewhere out of sight, somewhere no one would notice, even if the house changed hands in between now and whenever it was he made it back to retrieve his memories. He planned on being quick about it too.

But this house wasn't what he expected, and it caused him to pause. He tried to make sense of it.

The front door opened. A figure appeared. "Draco?"

oOoOoOoOo

 **Present day...**

Draco sighed and let the letter drop onto the table. Bill reached over and snagged it up, even though Draco had just read the contents out loud to the Order members who were at the breakfast table.

The letter had been addressed to him. It'd come from Percy. Apparently Percy and his family were at such odds that even important Order information had to go through a neutral party, and couldn't go straight to the Weasleys. And Draco apparently was that neutral party.

Although, in Percy's defense, the letter concerned Draco's family, so he supposed he couldn't get too irritated at the family dynamics.

"Your memories could still be there," said Ginny. She was seated next to Draco and she reached out to put a hand on his. "You would have hid your memories well, maybe even spelled them to be invisible except in your presence."

"Percy says the reports of the damage to the cemetery is extensive," Bill said, as if Draco hadn't just read the entire letter verbatim. "Even if we do get travel papers, the cemetery will be under a state of repair for a while."

"So we sneak in," said Ron, around a mouthful of eggs. "Wouldn't be the hardest thing we've broken into."

"It does suggest a few other tidbits of information," Severus said. He was leaned back in his chair, a cup of tea in his hands. Those gathered at the table turned to look at him. "One, the Death Eaters are aware that Draco is without his memories. Two, that they are searching anywhere remotely connected to Draco to find his memories first, and three, it is unlikely that Draco left his memories at Lukas's grave."

"How did you jump to that conclusion?" Arthur asked.

"If I'm such a genius, I wouldn't have left my memories anywhere the Death Eaters might think of," Draco said, chiming in for Severus. "I would have left them at a place the Death Eaters would never suspect."

"So, where does that leave us?" Hermione asked.

Silence followed her question.

"I guess we need to out-genius Draco," said Bill finally. He gave a smile, like he was making a joke, but it seemed to fall flat.

Draco sighed and pushed his plate away. He wasn't hungry anymore. He left the dining room, hearing Bill call after him, but he didn't stop. He was sick of all the dead-ends. He was sick of the mystery.

Draco went back to his room and locked the door behind him. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be miserable. He pulled the photo out of his sock drawer and flopped onto his bed in a huff.

He stared at the photo. In the picture, Lucius's lips tugged up, smugly satisfied as he gazed at his wife. Narcissa dropped her gaze from her newly wedded husband and seemed to take in a bracing breath.

"You look like the asshole I met the other day," Draco informed photo-Lucius. He turned his gaze onto his mother. "You don't look so bad. I don't see what the problem is. Not that I don't trust everyone. They all say you're trouble. It's just… well, if I knew where you were I could see for myself, couldn't I? I could see what all the fuss is about."

A thought struck him suddenly. He sat up and fumbled with the photo, removing the backing from the frame. He pulled the picture out from underneath the glass and then flipped it over.

There, on the back of the photo, an address was written in a neat cursive hand. Draco knew that writing. It was his own.

The address was paired with instructions. ' _Hold the photograph. Speak the address aloud_.'

Draco sprang off his bed. He grabbed a jacket and stuffed his feet into his shoes. He slipped his wand into his jeans pocket and then paused a moment. There was a strange fluttering in his chest. He was about to meet his mother. He ducked into the bathroom to brush his teeth. A glance at himself in the mirror made him reach for his comb and run it through his hair. And then he glanced down at his clothes. Jeans. A t-shirt. A jacket. Was that okay? Should he wear something more formal?

"She's bad news," Draco said aloud, trying to remind himself. "She's unsafe. She's…,"

But he didn't know what else she was. He didn't know by what criteria was a being judged.

"Merde," Draco swore.

He walked back out into the bedroom and picked up the photograph.

"Blossom House. The Cotswolds, England."

The familiar yank of a portkey seized him. The room blurred then disappeared and then he was spat outside onto a neatly trimmed front yard. He nearly kept his balance, but ultimately failed. He blamed the vertigo that followed from the jolt.

He pushed himself back up and looked around him. The day was warm. The sky was partially covered with thick white clouds. There was a steady, light breeze that brushed through the trees, but other than the wind and the faint birdsong, it was silent. Peaceful.

This was not what he had been expecting.

Granted, he wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting, but he knew this wasn't it.

The house in front of him looked like a cottage. A very large cottage. Three stories, lots of paned windows, all warmly lit with lanterns, and a front garden so massive, it was spilling out into the well-groomed front lawn. All the plants appeared to be blooming. Several pink, several purple, but the majority were blue. Draco wondered if it was her favorite color.

The front walk was a series of flat paving stones. Draco cautiously stepped up them to the front porch, a spacious area with two wooden rocking chairs, covered in pillows and blankets. Three planters hung from the rafters. A few butterflies flitted around the plants. A wind-chime tinkered in the breeze.

Draco reached out to the door-knocker and tapped it against the metal plate on the door. The door-knocker set off a series of musical chimes. Draco waited, feeling his breath catch slightly in anticipation. He patted his jeans pocket, just to be sure his wand was there, just in case she turned out as bad as he'd been told.

Form inside, he could hear light footsteps hurrying towards the door. He braced himself, and then the door was pulled open.

Narcissa Malfoy was nothing like he'd feared.

The way she had been described, the way she had been talked about, Draco had been expecting someone evil-looking. Someone sculpted, frigid, aloof. Perhaps covered in jewels with a cruel smile on her lips. Perhaps with heavy brows, red lips, and revealing clothing.

In contrast with his expectations, Narcissa was dressed in a pale blue, tea-length dress. Her hair was pale blonde, cascading down her back in gentle curls. She wore minimal make-up, just a brush of mascara over her long eyelashes and a hint of lipstick. She looked soft, approachable, and kind.

Draco sucked in a breath. She was beautiful.

She was also sick.

Draco could see that in the almost-translucent quality to her skin, the pallor of her cheeks, and the way she was breathing heavy, as if she'd lost her breath running for the door.

"Draco," she said, voice more of a gasp. She reached out to him, a faint tremor in her hand.

"Hello," said Draco. And reached back.

Her hands clasped his, and then she pulled him forward, up a step into the house, and into her embrace. She gripped him tight. "Oh, my baby."

Her arms were weak, but that didn't mean Draco didn't relish the feeling of being held close. He squeezed back, gently, and could feel her tremble in his arms.

She was definitely unwell.

Draco pulled back, wanting to ask what was wrong, but she only smiled at him. "Look at you! You've gotten so big, so handsome!" She reached out to pat his cheek and Draco felt his cheeks heat up. Her smile faded, just a little bit. "And, of course, you don't remember me."

Draco shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"No," she said, giving a small smile. "Don't be sorry. Come in, I'll make you a cup of tea."

She led him into the house and sat him in the parlor while she put the kettle on, but Draco wasn't content just sitting. Not when he'd been told his mother was dangerous. Not when he was witnessing the exact opposite. Not when he was in her house and it appeared to be some sort of fairy's adobe. Everywhere he looked there were flowers. And where there weren't real flowers, there were floral wallpapers, floral patterned curtains, and floral paintings.

It should have looked terrible. It should have looked like some crazed grandmother's house with all the contrasting patterns and colors, but it all worked together impossible well. The colors all complimented each other. The patterns were varied in sizes, subtleties, and styles in a way that enhanced the house around him.

And there were still so many paintings. Paintings of flowers. Paintings of people. Paintings of landscapes. Even a few abstract paintings.

Draco found Narcissa's studio upstairs. It was a large room with hardwood floors and tall windows that let in great swaths of natural light. There were more paintings in various states of completion here. Some were drying, some were half-painted, and some were only sketched out.

Narcissa found him there, glancing through a stack of finished landscapes. She handed him a cup of tea and then wrapped both hands around her own, like she was soaking in the heat.

Draco gestured around the room. "You paint. Really well."

"Thank you. It's something I've been rediscovering." She motioned for him to follow her over to the corner of the room. An armchair was placed there, an easel beside it, as if she sometimes painted while seated. Draco snagged the cushioned ottoman. Narcissa sank into the armchair looking weary and pinched around her eyes.

"You're sick," Draco said.

"Yes," she said. She pressed a hand against her temple. "It was to be expected, really."

Draco didn't know what she meant by that. He wanted to ask, but he knew there were more pressing questions. He leaned forward. "Do you know where my memories are?"

Narcissa nodded. "You left them here."

Draco made to get up. "Where?"

She reached out and pressed a hand on his knee. He paused.

"I'll give them to you," she promised. "But first…," she paused. She looked away from him, breath catching. "Let me tell you a story."

"I don't know how much time I have before they realize I'm gone," Draco said. "They weren't thrilled about me coming here. And I don't know how long the memories will take to go back into my head. Can it wait until after?"

She shook her head. "You won't listen to me when you get your memories back. You won't… you're going to hate me, and right now, this is the only chance I have to tell you about your family."

Draco sat back down onto the ottoman. He rubbed a hand through his hair, uncertain.

"You promised me you would listen when you left your memories here," Narcissa said.

"I did?"

She nodded. "You said it would be the only time you'd be willing to listen. So, will you?"

"I guess it's only fair if I do," said Draco.

She gave a forced sort of smile. "Thank you." She took in a breath. "I've been thinking about what to tell you for years now. When I knew you were coming back to retrieve your memories, I knew I'd get a chance to explain some things. About me. About your father. In all honesty, it helped me work through some things as well, realize where I went wrong.

"The first thing I wanted to tell you is that I've never been a strong person. I never had to be. As a child, I was privileged, spoiled, and sheltered. I didn't have to think about money. I didn't have to think about providing for myself. My parents were very wealthy, very powerful, and as such, I had everything I could ever want. It was a charmed life, a happy life.

"Before I went off to school, my parents made sure to educate me. Mathematics, science, magic, history, languages, and the arts. How I loved the arts. Music, dance, literature, poetry, and most of all, painting. You must have guessed that." Narcissa gestured out at the room around her. "Both my sisters were louder than me, more energetic, more… vital, I suppose. They saw the injustices of the world and wanted to change them – each in opposite ways. Andromeda aligned herself with the Muggle-born. Bellatrix went down the darker path."

Draco couldn't help but flinch a little at her name. Narcissa gave an apologetic wince.

"I didn't understand my sisters, not really, and they didn't understand me, because when I saw the world, I didn't see injustices. I didn't see opportunities to gain power. When I saw the world though, oh, I saw such wonderful things. Flowers. Animals. The ocean. The sky. The people. I saw colors and textures and beauty. I begged my parents to send me to Beauxbaton. They had such a good art program there, but they were insistent that Hogwarts was the place for me. They thought it would get my head out of the clouds, and ground me in reality.

"I suppose was happy enough there. There's beauty to be found anywhere, and Hogwarts was an impressive school. And then there was your father."

Narcissa looked at Draco. "He was the handsomest boy in school and the most popular. He came from a rich and powerful family. He was very smart and athletic and extremely charismatic.

"He was a year old than me, and took no real notice of me until my fifth year. He found me painting in the courtyard and seemed impressed at my artistic talent. He was even more impressed at my memory. I've always had a good eye for detail, and I only need to see something once to remember it.

"Even more, I think he was interested in the way I saw the world. The beauty in it. I could see sun when others only saw rain. I think it captivated him because there wasn't much beauty in his own world. He lived a cold, lonely, and stark existence, and he craved as much beauty as he could get."

Narcissa glanced down. "I fell in love with him. Truly I did, but I was also afraid of him. He had such intensity about him that sometimes it felt like he was suffocating me. And he was so much smarter than anyone I'd ever met, so much smarter than me, that he could make me question the color of the sky. He had a way of twisting words, of twisting logic, that he could always get what he wanted, and he always seemed to end up on top.

"He decided that he wanted me for his wife. He pursued me for several years after school. His attentions were flattering. His words were kind. And just as I loved him, he did care for me. But it wasn't the true kind of affection. Although he craved love, he didn't want the true kind of love. He wanted the selfish type. He wanted adoration and devotion.

"And as Lucius kept pursuing me, my family kept pressuring me as well. They knew what a marriage to a Malfoy would mean for the family. They wouldn't let me say no. And with their insistence, and with Lucius's way with words, I found myself becoming convinced with their arguments. I thought my initial denials were stupid. Here was a rich, handsome, intelligent man, a man I did love, who wanted my hand in marriage. What was so wrong with that? It was a fairy-tale come true. And so we were wed. And for a while, it was good."

Narcissa licked her lips. She took a sip of tea and Draco found himself leaning in, waiting for the next piece of the story.

"But Lucius kept needing more. More love. More attention. More adulation. And he also needed more power. He joined the Dark Lord and his mob, and he turned dark, so dark even I couldn't find any beauty in it. It terrified me. The horrors he was taking a part of, the death and destruction. The bigotry and hate. It was ugly."

Narcissa's hands tightened around her cup. "Lucius hated to see me upset, but he wouldn't stop his dealings with the Death Eaters. He took me to the Healers, convinced I was having a mild fit of hysterics or depression. And the Healers were used to treating rich clients who only wanted results without putting in any work or making any changes to their lifestyle. They gave me cheering charms and told me to take them every day, so I did. And the beauty came back and my happiness came back, but cheering charms aren't a permanent fix. So the Healers gave me more potions, mood-lifters, sedatives, even love potions.

"A strange sort of apathy took hold of me. I was happy, but I didn't care about painting anymore. I didn't bother listening to music. I walked around the house, smiling and giggling and empty. It was only with the potions that I could live with Lucius, and the way he seemed to suck all the happiness and joy out of me. And finally I could stomach the Death Eater meetings, and the ugliness of the world, and so I kept taking them. And then it was easy to make the jump to illegal drugs.

"Lucius quickly realize it was spiraling into an addiction. He got me clean for a few weeks, and I looked around at the world, and I realized I didn't want to be in it. Not without the drugs. But I knew the only way to get them back was to make Lucius hate me. So I had affairs. And dalliances. Public ones, meant to humiliate him, and I didn't care that I hurt him because he was slowly killing me."

Draco got up, not sure he was ready to hear all this. He paced to the window and looked out.

Narcissa continued, her voice taking on a choked quality, like she was trying not to cry. "But still Lucius wouldn't leave me alone. Still he wanted that devotion, and I had nothing left to give him except… except a child. So we conceived you. And I planned, I am so sorry to say this, but I had planned to have nothing to do with you. I even told Lucius that. I said, 'Take the baby when he comes, and leave me'."

Something panged in Draco's chest. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Is this what he'd been warned about?

"How I waited for the day of your birth. I saw it as a day of my rebirth. I'd been off the drugs while pregnant with you – Lucius wouldn't have it any other way. Without my mind muddled with substances, I had hope for the future again. I planned on buying a cottage and living on my own. I planned on growing a garden with all sorts of flowers. I planned on returning to my paints. And then you were born."

Draco looked over at her. She was crying now, tears spilling over her face. She reached a hand out to him, but Draco couldn't bring himself to reach back to her. He was horrified at what she was saying to him. Horrified at the history he was learning.

"Oh, Draco, you were so perfect," Narcissa said. "You had the biggest eyes. You had the most precious ears. Your nose was a cute little button, and I held you in my arms, and I thought, 'I can't give you up. He can't have you. He won't be able to love you, the way a parent needs to love a child.' But I knew he was coming in to take you.

"You were crying. Of course you were crying. You were a baby, barely hours old. I knew he could hear you crying, so I cast an anti-crying hex on you, just to spend a couple more minutes with you, but then he came. He took you away, and I thought it would be okay. He'd needed to bring you back to me so I could take the hex off. So I waited. I waited for a day, and then a week, and then two weeks. I bought this cottage, I planned on moving, and still, he didn't bring you back. And I thought, why wouldn't he bring you to me? Surely he must know it's not right for a child not to cry, surely he'll see there's something wrong, and I'll be able to hold you again. But Lucius didn't. And I didn't know if he was that inexperienced with children, or if… or if he wanted the perfect son. A son who would never shed a tear."

Draco reached up to his face. His eyes were stinging, but no tears fell. Even when he'd been at his loneliest on the run, he hadn't cried. He'd thought nothing of it at the time. He'd thought that perhaps he wasn't that lonely or that distraught, but now… now he knew differently.

Narcissa spoke again. "When I realized that I would most likely never see you again when I left Lucius, the grief came back. But I still planned on leaving. But Lucius couldn't quite let me go. He still wanted a wife, and a wife who had affairs was still better than a wife who divorced him. And I think… I think he still loved me in that selfish sort of way.

"He had the Healer pay me a visit, the same Healer that had offered me my first cheering potions. But this time he had something stronger. And I remember thinking, as I let him into my room, that I should have just shut the door in his face. I should have kept him out. And I was thinking, as I took the potion, that I might never find myself again. But I was also thinking, 'Just one more time. Just one more potion. I've just lost my baby, surely I deserve to have this one potion'."

Narcissa hunched in on herself. "And so I took the potion, because I've told you already, I'm not a strong person. I've always been like the flowers I grow. Delicate. Fragile. And so I took that potion, and I wasn't sober again for seventeen years.

"But perhaps I've told this story wrong. It was my choice to take the potions. It has always been my choice. And it was my choice to keep taking them, to keep numbing out my conscience instead of listening to it. Lucius just provided the opportunity to keep taking the easy way out."

Narcissa put her teacup down. "After he died, I realized there was no need to numb it out anymore. I could leave, retire to my cottage, and so I did. And so I've stayed here. Away from the world, and the ugliness, just as sheltered as when I was young."

She brushed the tears from her face. She pulled in a breath, steeling herself. She looked at him. "I've done terrible things to you Draco. Things you'll remember when you get your memories back. This isn't… this isn't an excuse. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was weak. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry that everything has turned out this way. And I love you, Draco. I've never said it before, but I do. And that makes what I've done even more unforgiveable."

Draco didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what to do. She was apologizing for a past he couldn't remember. In this moment, he'd heard her story. Her heartache. Her failings. He felt for her, but something kept him from saying anything. By her own admission, she'd mistreated him. He couldn't offer absolution for crimes he didn't fully understand.

She didn't seem to expect an answer from him. She just stood, shaky and weak, and motioned for him to follow her. She led him across the hall to a small library and gestured for him to sit on the couch. Draco did, but his leg jounced up and down in nervous anticipation. She crossed over to a small writing desk and unlocked a side drawer. She reached inside and pulled out a wooden box. It was intricately carved with flowers and vines running along the top and the sides.

"The box will only open for you," she said. She handed it to him and then leaned down and pressed a kiss against his forehead. "You can let yourself out when you're ready. I won't be offended if you don't say goodbye."

She left the room, closing the door gently behind her. Draco stared at the box in his hands.

This, too, hadn't been what he expected. He thought maybe a crystal ball, glowing with magic. Or a pensieve, he'd read up on those. But this was just a box.

And it was also everything he'd been wanting for as long as he could remember – just a few short months, really, but to him, he'd been waiting his whole life. What would he remember? Who would he become?

He set the box down on the coffee table and swiped a hand over his face. Now that he was about to get his memories back, he felt almost afraid. Would he remember who he was now or would he lose that piece of himself?

He got up to pace about the room.

How many terrible memories would he have?

Would it even be better if he didn't open this box? A Pandora's box if ever there was one.

But just as soon as the doubts rose up, they subsided again.

Draco didn't know who he was without his past. There was a hole in his brain and Draco was sick of it. He wanted those memories back.

He strode over to the box and picked it up. The clasp was locked, but as soon as he brushed his fingers over it, the latch clicked open. Draco sucked in a breath, opened the lid, and peered inside.

Light shot out. But more than light. A jumble of sounds, sights, voices, tastes and smells, feelings and emotions rushed over him, and it was far too much. It was overwhelming. It was painful.

He was lost in an ocean, tossed about with random flecks of memories, and his head felt like it was going to explode.

Draco doubled over, the box dropping to the floor, his hands reaching up to clutch at his head. The pain spiked. Draco fell to the ground and screamed.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Bill knocked on Draco's door. "Hey, it's Bill." He paused and waited. "Draco, look, I know you're upset about the cemetery, but can we at least talk about it?"

There was no answer.

Bill frowned and tried to the door handle. It was locked. He sighed, pulled out his wand, and unlocked the door. He stepped through.

Draco wasn't there.

An empty picture frame was lying on his bed. Bill had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Author's note: So... thoughts?


	15. Remembering

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Obviously.

OoOoOoOoO

 **Five years ago…**

The woman who answered the door was Narcissa Malfoy, but it also wasn't. She looked horrible. Her face was pale, almost sheet white. Her hair was thin and flat. Her lips were nearly colorless.

But her eyes were clear.

Draco stared at her.

She licked her lips. "Would you like to come in?"

Her voice was trembling, weak. She stepped back to pull the door open a little bit further. She was wearing a pale pink dress. It looked soft. It was long sleeved and dropped past her knees. It wasn't revealing or seductive or downright indecent. It appeared to be two decades old. An old gown of hers, perhaps?

There were spots of color on the dress. A splatter of white, green, and yellow. Paint?

Draco was going to say no. He didn't know who this woman was, and he didn't really care to know, but the paint was a funny detail.

He strode silently into the house and then followed the lights further in. It was clear she had just moved in. There were boxes and trunks stacked along the walls. The walls were bare. The lights led to the kitchen even though it was past the dinner hour. Narcissa hadn't been eating though. There were no dishes, no food. There was an armchair however, and an artist's easel, and a half-finished landscape.

Draco walked closer because he recognized the garden that was being painted. It was the side garden at the manor, the one with the fountain surrounded by daffodils, blue bells, and peonies. And it appeared his mother was capturing every single flower, and even though he didn't care to remember every flower, he had a feeling that this painting was accurate down to the very last petal.

Something clicked into place for him. He wouldn't have had such a good memory if he didn't get it from both parents. He looked up at Narcissa, She was leaning against the doorway, looking somehow paler than before.

"You're ill," Draco said.

"You can hardly be surprised, all factors taken into consideration," said Narcissa.

She moved towards the chair, and Draco stepped away, even though it looked like she might faint mid-way there. He wasn't going to catch her. She made it to the chair though, and sat down heavily.

"I wasn't expecting this," Draco said.

"What made you come then? I know you didn't come to see me."

"I wanted to leave something here," said Draco. "Without your knowledge, of course. I need to leave for a while and have something that needs to remain hidden."

Narcissa smiled. "And this would be the last place anyone would look."

"Precisely," said Draco.

Narcissa glanced down and swallowed. "I know I don't have the right to ask, but I find I can't help it." She looked up. Her brows were furrowed. "Are you in trouble, Draco?"

For a moment, she sounded worried. For a moment, Draco understood what it was to be cared for by a mother. He immediately brushed the feeling away. "No more than usual."

"Draco," said Narcissa. She paused a moment before continuing. "I know you must be in dire trouble to come to me. Yet I find I am pleased at the news if it means I might be able to talk to you. Perhaps have a conversation? A chance to… well, not atone any of my wrongs, but at least -,"

"I don't want anything from you," Draco said, cutting her off. "In fact, I'm probably going to obliviate you in a few minutes because I don't trust you with my secrets. It was really just morbid curiosity that brought me here."

He could tell his words hurt her. She actually flinched and glanced away. Her hand went to her throat. "Of course. I can't say I deserve any less." She looked back at him and gave him a watery sort of smile.

"Merde," Draco swore, because she looked like a weak, fragile sort of thing. "Why, in the name of Merlin, would you marry Lucius of all people if you're going to cry at the drop of a hat?"

Narcissa laughed a little, a helpless, sad sort of sound and she dashed her tears away with her hand. "I told him no at least a dozen times."

And that didn't fit with the narrative Draco had in his head at all. He paused and looked at her, really looked at her. There was nothing provocative or cold or ruthless about her now. He looked at the painting and the photographic quality of the detail. He pressed his eyes shut for a moment, thinking, and then opened them and looked up at his mother.

"It would be safer if the item I leave behind isn't just buried in the garden somewhere. It would be safer if there was a secret-keeper."

Narcissa nodded immediately. "Yes. I'll do it."

She said it quickly, far too quickly. It made Draco uncomfortable.

"I'll pay you, of course," said Draco. "Some upfront and more upon my return."

She shook her head. "Not money. I don't need money. I need something worth more."

Draco paused. Suspicion rose up. "What?"

"A bit of your time," said Narcissa.

Draco glanced at his watch. "I have to leave soon."

"When you come back then," said Narcissa. "Just a half hour. Or even less, twenty minutes. Just… I want to have a conversation with you. There are things I'd like to be able to tell you."

"I can safely promise you at least twenty minutes upon my return," said Draco. "In fact, you'll probably have more because I won't know a thing about you."

She paused for a moment. "What, exactly, are you leaving with me?"

Draco looked at her. "My memories."

oOoOoOoOo

Sensation.

Too much sensation.

Sights and sounds. Smells and tastes. Touches of pleasure and of pain.

Every memory in his head that he had pulled out five years ago was trying to cram itself back into place and his brain was overwhelmed. He couldn't make sense of it all. Each memory was perfectly preserved – he was a genius after all – and he was drowning in it. His brain desperately tried to tie the sensations into coherent clips of memory and then desperately trying to categorize all of it. Childhood memories and school memories. Family and acquaintances. Experiential knowledge and knowledge he had gleaned from books. Languages and music and art and potions and –

And magic.

He'd forgotten. How could he have – ?

But there were other things he had forgotten.

Lucius.

( _Arms holding him tight, lip sneered in disgust, an approving drop of a hand on his shoulder, a vice-like grip on his arm, fear and love and longing -_ )

Lukas.

( _Laughter and fun and adventure and safety and then tearing, ripping, screaming hole in heart -_ )

Narcissa.

( _Cold and vacant and bliss, bliss, bliss followed by shrieking pain -_ )

The Dark Lord.

( _Pain and fear. A knife. The cruciatus curse. The thick black oil of him pressed against his mind, trying to break in -_ )

His body rocked on the ground in remembered pain and panic. His head throbbed. His stomach lurched and bile rose up in his mouth. He felt his body heave and retch up breakfast, but the vomit was a faint taste in his mouth, faint against the memory of all other meals he had eaten.

Hogwarts' feasts. Fancy dinner parties. The uncomfortable meals of his childhood – the stifling tension of Lucius and Narcissa, the way food would lodge in his throat as he tried to swallow, the way his stomach would twist when he finally did. The humble, simple, friendly meals of Mrs. Weasley.

Weasleys.

Ginny.

( _Glints of red and gold, dripping trepidation, bounding joy, laughter and kisses -_ )

Bill.

( _A hand extended to him, pain in his knee, a smile, the scent of chalk and old parchments, a daring rescue in the middle of the night, a plea to save an unborn child, arms grabbing him in and holding him tight, steady companionship and belonging, and -_ )

Draco sucked in a breath. "Stop."

The memories stopped their bombardment.

He took in another breath and then carefully pushed the memories back, trying to get room to breathe. It felt jumbled in his head, like his memories were piled in heaps on the floor of his mind. That was fine. As long as they didn't all rush at him again he could pick through them later. Just not now, not when…

Not when he was at Narcissa's house.

Fear.

He jolted upright, his body tensing in panic and his hand immediately grabbing his wand.

But there was no one with him, just an empty room and puddle of vomit next to him. It was a simple matter of vanishing away the pool of sick. Another charm scrubbed through his mouth, removing the aftertaste.

It was old hat, those charms, and yet there was a voice in the back of his head that was excitedly chattering about magic and knowing magic and being able to do magic. He ruthlessly tamped the voice down. He got himself up and to his feet. His head spun. Pain in the base of his skull. Expected but still unpleasant. He'd need a pain reliever.

He glanced around the study and noticed the box on the ground. The memory box. The receptacle for his old memories, but also for the five years he had been missing. He remembered those years now. He remembered the cities he had traveled to. The fear he'd felt. The confusion. The time he had wasted learning computers and decryption algorithms only to realize the code and electronics were incompatible. The loneliness. The despair. The –

He slammed the door shut on those memories too. Now was not the time.

He picked the box up, immediately cataloguing the difference. When he had left the box with Narcissa, it'd been a plain, wooden box – old and ancient and of dark carved wood, slightly tarnished and battered. Now it had been painted. Delicately and beautifully painted.

Narcissa had talent.

He remembered her conversation with him. He remembered her explanation.

Anger flared up, cold and icy. His fingers clenched around his wand, but he forced them to relax. It wouldn't do to project anger. He strode out of the room and down the hall, not caring at the paintings he passed or the glimpses of Narcissa that were displayed. He didn't care to see them.

She was in the studio, sitting on her armchair. An easel was in front of her, but she wasn't painting. She was curled up in the seat, her hands wrapped around her tea mug, as if she was waiting for him. Her expression lifted when she saw him, hopeful and yearning, as if she hadn't expected he'd say goodbye to her on the way out.

Draco stopped in the doorway and looked down on her. "You need things to be beautiful?" he asked, voice clipped. "That's the excuse you give? That your pampered and aristocratic life was not beautiful enough?"

Her expression shuttered a little. "No, not an excuse. I'm weak, Draco. I told you that."

"Weak enough to arrange secret dalliances against the most powerful wizard in England?" Draco asked. "Weak enough to plan elaborate holidays and dinner parties and shopping sprees that pan all of Europe? Weak enough to brew your own potions when necessary? Does that sound weak to you, Mother?"

"Please, Draco, I-,"

" _Moments_ of weakness I would understand," Draco cut in, voice dropping all of the cold fury he felt inside of him. " _Moments_ of weakness I could even learn to forgive. I've know what it's like to crave a drug after all, thanks to you. But you're not weak; you're selfish. When things don't go your way, when they're not 'beautiful' enough for you, then you blame everyone else and play the role of victim."

She shook her head, tears dripping down her face. "No, no that's not true. I was sick. But I'm better now. Can't you see that?"

"Better?" Draco repeated, and then he laughed, a little cruelly. "You're not better, Narcissa. You're just living in a fantasy. Of course it's easy to be nice and good and better when you're living in a fairy-tale, but I have no doubt that with a single speck of conflict, and you'll be back to your narcissistic and self-absorbed ways. No, you're not better. And you wont be. Not until you admit that you're just as much a villain as the rest of this family."

She folded in on herself, her thin shoulders heaving, and wept. She wasn't even trying to deny his statements, wasn't trying to argue. She was just giving in. The victim yet again.

"Stay here," Draco told her, feeling a bit of exhaustion creep into his voice. "Merlin knows it's the only place you'll be able to operate in."

He turned to leave. She called out after him. "Will you come back? Will you visit?"

Draco wanted to say no. He wanted to crush her under his foot the way one crushed fallen petals on the pavement in spring. He sucked in a breath. His head was spinning. His throat felt tight. His stomach felt queasy.

"Good-bye, Mother," he said, unable to answer her.

He strode out of the house and past the overflowing luscious garden and into the yard. He Apparated away, back to the Malfoy Manor, back home and –

The scent hit him first. Gardenia, honeysuckle, dragon-bloom, and fire-orchid. A mix of sweet, citrus, and musk that was immediately familiar and comforting to him.

Home.

He was home.

The next breath he took in was deep and long. His legs felt strangely weak as he took his first steps towards the manor. It was exactly as he had left it – the same pale gay stone, the sprawling wings of the manor, the sculpted trim around the windows, the intricate stonework.

Although the vegetable garden peeking out the back corner was new. Not that he hadn't seen it before. It just meant more to him now. His mind filtered through the implications of that garden. Economics. Safety. Supply and demand. Food rationing.

But then his mind flipped to different memories, vivid and intense, almost as if he was experiencing the moments all over again. Walking with Lucius. Riding thestrals. Dinner parties. Holidays. Mornings spent in the center of the hedge maze, sprawled on the stone bench in the center, a stack of books on the ground. Hot summer nights walking through the fountain, trousers rolled up and feet bare. Long days, alone except for the house-elves, feeling like he would suffocate from the boredom.

The memories crashed over him like an ocean wave. Draco paused, held his breath, and pushed them back again. The memories receded, unhappily. His head felt thick.

Draco ignored the ache. He was Draco Malfoy. He was home.

He had work to do.

He had more than work to do. He had a savior to save, a good deal of translating to do, a bit of travel, and most likely, a lot of fighting. Perhaps even a murder.

He hoped not though.

He ran lightly up the front steps, mind spinning – but in a good way. He was already plotting, already organizing. Logistics were considered, re-arranged, and discarded. He reached the front steps and the doors automatically opened for him, sensing his presence, sensing the signum on his back, and for a moment, he stopped. The planning paused as he took in the flush of warmth that traveled across his back and shoulders.

He was _home_.

"Draco!"

Draco glanced up. Harry Potter was on the upper floor, leaning over the balcony. He looked a little frazzled.

"Where the hell were you?" Potter asked. "You can't just leave like that! You had the whole house in uproar."

Draco ignored the rant. He pointed at the boy-hero. "We need to talk. Not now. But soon."

He didn't wait for a response, just kept walking, past the portraits and the tapestries, underneath the chandeliers and painted ceilings, over the marble floors. Every detail was exactly as he remembered.

He turned down the main hall towards the kitchens. The Order seemed to prefer the collection of rooms by the kitchens, the semi-formal dining room, the casual living room, and the den. He could hear voices as he approached, partially raised and tensed voices.

He rounded the doorway. His eyes immediately picked out Bill. The red-head was scrubbing a hand over his face. There was a map on the table in front of him. Sirius Black was beside him, arguing a little. Mr. Weasley was in the corner, looking frustrated. Blaise's head was in the fireplace. A Floo call.

Draco cleared his throat. All eyes snapped his way, even Blaise's head.

"Bloody hell!" Blaise swore, and then his face withdrew.

"Draco!" Bill exclaimed, relief evident on his face. His voice sounded harried though. "Where were you? We were looking all over for you!"

"So I see," said Draco. He tipped his head towards the door. "A word, Bill?"

He stepped back out in the hall and then headed towards the kitchen, intent on a cup of tea.

He had a mug out and the kettle on the stove by the time Bill came in after him. "What were you doing, Draco?" Bill asked. "You scared about five years off of us. What if something happened to you?"

Draco felt his lips twist up at the obvious concern. "I'm fine, Bill."

Bill stopped short. Draco catalogued the differences in his appearance in the few seconds Bill stared at him. There were faint crinkles in the corner of his eyes. His brow boasted shallow frown lines. There was a faint scar on the side of his face that hadn't been there before. It looked slightly ragged – not a spell then. But other than that, it was Bill. Long red hair. Freckles. Eyes bright.

" _Draco_?" Bill asked, incredulous.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Surprise."

His voice wasn't as droll as he wanted it to be. It was impossible to keep all of the warmness from the greeting.

Bill gaped, then laughed, and then grabbed him into a hug. Draco didn't fight the embrace, even stepped into it and clapped Bill on the back because –

Because it had been five years. It didn't feel like five years. And he didn't fully remember those five years – or rather, those memories hadn't fully been integrated into his brain just yet, they were slowly trickling in – but he still felt distant. Removed. Left behind in a sort of way.

Bill's grip around him let him feel connected; let him feel like he belonged. But then years of etiquette classes came rushing back to him, and he stiffened. Bill immediately stepped back. He kept one hand on his shoulder though, like he was afraid Draco was going to run.

"Merlin, you're here," he said, a wide, dumbfounded grin on his face. "Look at you!"

Draco rolled his eyes and then ducked out of his grasp to prod the kettle into boiling with his wand. He poured a cup of tea and then poured another for Bill. He sat at the side table, letting the tea steep.

"I've been five years without a proper cup of tea," Draco said, mostly to avoid talking about anything else. "Five years without knowing what a proper cup of tea was. That's the most tragic thing about the thing I think."

Bill took the chair across from him. He leaned forward. "How did you find your memories? Where were they?"

Draco should have remembered how good Bill was at asking all the difficult questions. He fiddled with the steeper and then glanced up at Bill. "Pretend you don't have any memories. Pretend you've been alone and confused for months, and then you finally meet people who know you. They say that they're your friends, but they also tell you that you can't meet your own family, that it's not safe to meet your family. Where are you going to go?"

Bill's face became stricken. "Narcissa."

"Everyone knew that I would not leave my memories with her," said Draco. "But it is the one place that a memory-less boy is guaranteed to go. It's ingenious, really, if I do say so myself."

"You left them there, or you left them with her?" Bill asked.

Draco sucked in a breath. The visit with Narcissa, and the emotions that were dragged up, were still too raw. "Shit, Bill. I forgot what a pain in the arse you were."

Bill didn't say anything, just waited as Draco pulled the steeper out of his tea, added a small amount of cream to his mug, and took a sip.

"I left them with her, in fact," he said. "It wasn't the plan originally, but she's sober."

"Sober?"

"I was more surprised than you," said Draco. "And she agreed to be a secret-keeper."

"Why?"

"Because she wanted the chance to give me her sob story," said Draco. "She wanted to excuse her behavior by playing the victim and making me feel sorry for her." He put his mug down on the table and reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. His head was beginning to ache again. No, not again. It had never stopped aching. It was just becoming more painful.

Memory spells. They weren't recommended for long-term use. They weren't recommended for wiping an entire seventeen years.

Draco could picture the medical reviews in his head now. ' _Long term use of memory spells can result in unwanted chronic side effects including continued amnesia, lack of memory re-integration, loss of sense of self, personality change, mood lability, flashbacks, disturbed sleep, and migraines. Short term side effects, following sudden re-integration of memories, include severe headache, vertigo, confusion, paranoia, nausea, vomiting, fever, cold sweats, night-terrors_ – '

Draco cut the list off. It wasn't helping.

"Did it work?" Bill asked.

It took Draco a minute to realize what he was asking. He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe until I actually got my memories back, but then I remembered everything and -,"

He remembered the potions slipping down his throat. Remembered the colors and visions that danced in front of his eyes. He remembered the pain and the intense, yearning ache that seemed to crack through his bones as his body plummeted into withdrawal. He remembered screaming. He remembered crying, no tears, and shivering in Lucius' arms.

It was all so real and overwhelming that he gasped in a breath and half-crumpled over the table, his mug rocking and splashing tea over the side.

"Draco!"

That was Bill's voice, concern spiking through it, and Draco had heard that tone of voice before. He remembered it on the Quidditch field, his knee crumpled under him; in a cabin, hiding from the Death Eaters; in his apartment, high on Angel Flight.

A hand on his forehead snapped him back from the memories. He jerked back, eyes wild and breath heavy.

"Draco, are you okay?" Bill demanded.

He wanted to answer, he truly did, but the words were stuck in his throat. Was he okay? He remembered his knee being snapped. He remembered fighting for Bill through a horde of Death Eaters. He remembered being high.

"Je vais bien," Draco said, trying to wave his concern away. He was belatedly aware that his words didn't come out the way he wanted. And then the French words he had spoken suddenly got translated into English, and Latin, and Italian, and Gaelic, and then it kept going, the thoughts in his head getting filtered through a dozen different dialects, and it wasn't just hearing the words, he could see them written as well, and he was conjugating verbs and switching the order of adjectives and –

And he needed dark. He needed dark and quiet and alone so that he could finally get his thoughts straight. He needed safety.

He pushed himself up and started walking, keeping one hand trailing on the wall, half-guiding him. His footsteps took him towards the dungeons. He could hear Bill tagging along behind him, could hear him ask if he was okay, but he wasn't entirely present. He was living out his childhood again – left to his own devices in the manor, taking refuge in the dungeons and experimenting with rather dangerous potions ingredients. He remembered creating strange concoctions that fizzled and boiled and flamed up. He remembered hiding all evidence of his work when he was finished, so no one else would know. He remembered times when he couldn't go down there – Lucius had locked the doors, meaning there was an unwilling guest imprisoned inside. He remembered waking up, his head throbbing, confined with a group of children from school.

He pushed open the door to the dungeons just when that particularly memory played through – a prisoner in his own home, getting marched up to meet Voldemort in the blue conference room, a knife through his arm.

His knees buckled at the remembered pain. Bill grabbed his arm and slowed his descent to the ground.

"Draco, what's wrong?" Bill demanded.

Another voice sounded from the stairs below, a low, sonorous sort of voice. "Feeling a little dramatic, are we, Mr. Malfoy?"

Memories slammed into him. A tall man. Pale skin, dark hair, black eyes, a rather overlooked, unappreciated sort of drama about him. Moments of companionship, and guarded words of advice. The comforting notion that he could be a source of help if needed. A sharp mind for facts, but limited social graces.

"Professor Snape," he managed.

Something thumped, like it had been dropped onto a wooden table. Footsteps sounded towards him, running lightly up the stairs. A figure knelt in front of him.

Draco remembered Potion's class, all six and a half years of it. He remembered sneering insults at Potter, the scent of smoke and soot, the feel of heat and steam.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," Bill said somewhere above him.

Draco tried to bring himself back to the present, tried to focus on the sallow face in front of him.

"Ah," said Snape. "I don't suppose you had the foresight to ease your memories back into that head of yours, instead of just dumping the whole lot back in at once?"

"Only one memory box," Draco said, struggling through the muddled mess of his brain. "I couldn't… couldn't find any others. Couldn't waste anymore time."

He remembered the decision, remembered holding the box in his hands, remembered weighing the risk. He remembered pulling the memories out – the pain – the disorientation – the fear.

Draco's hands went to his head. The world spun.

"His memories are doing this?" he heard Bill ask.

"All of his memories were returned at once," said Snape, pitching his voice low. "For anyone that would be overwhelming. For someone like Draco, with perfect recall, I imagine it's closer to reliving full moments of his life."

Draco leaned forward to put his head between his knees because his stomach was rolling again. Snape pulled him up though and directed him down the stairs. Draco remembered walking down these stairs – hundreds and hundreds of times before. Sometimes he ran down, eager to start his work. Sometimes he walked slower, loneliness adding weight to his feet. Sometimes he trailed a hand on the railing, a book held in front of him, his eyes skimming over the pages.

Draco was deposited in a chair – well-stuffed and soft. Something was draped over him – a blanket, knitted. His fingers knotted in the blanket because this was new. There were no memories tied to the blanket.

He blinked down at it – a rich, green yarn. Even stitches. Handmade. Mrs. Weasley most likely. He glanced around the dungeon, and that was different too. The armchair, a side table and lamp, Snape's own potions' set up.

"Back with us?" Bill asked.

Draco looked over. Bill looked different too, and Draco latched onto those differences. The faint lines on his face. The pinch around his eyes.

"I'm fine," said Draco.

Bill laughed a little. "You aren't, but it's good to hear you say that."

Draco reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his head still aching. "Apparently my brain needs to re-organize itself."

"But you remember," said Bill. "You remember why you left?"

The Merlin Code.

Images rose up – the runes he'd been studying for five years. The jolted, uneven, sometimes repeated and triplicated progress he had made over the past five years. All that information slammed into him, an entire new language – but more than that – a new form of magic. He remembered Bill writing the water rune on the table. He remembered the water that flowed up.

He remembered what he had to do with the code.

Draco suddenly realized that he wasn't breathing because Bill was shouting at him, hands on his face, and his lungs were burning. The breath came automatically, but the runes didn't stop flashing over his vision, not until something pungent suddenly filled his lungs, and he choked on the next breath.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco blinked up at Snape and the vial he held in his hand. He didn't need to see the vial to know what it was, he could tell just based on the smell. "Aconite."

"Precisely." The Potion's Master moved back towards his cauldrons. "Perhaps you can tell me what I'm brewing."

"Wolfsbane," said Draco immediately.

"Maybe we could brew him a calming potion?" Bill asked.

Snape shook his head. "Hardly necessary. He just needs to learn to ground himself. Ingredient's list, Draco."

"Aconite," Draco said again, memories coming back, but calmly, orderly. He knew this information. "Diluted dragon's blood. Wormwood infusion. Bezoar water. Dittany. Sprig of holly. Dusting of silver."

"Instructions," said Snape.

Draco took in a breath. He knew this too. He could picture the instructions on the page and he could remember brewing the potion, dozens of times. "Start with a half cauldron of water – copper preferable." The instructions came easily to his mind and fell easily off his lips, the information being logged and placed into the proper filing cabinet in his mind. When he finished talking, he could feel the pressure ease.

"Quite correct," said Snape dryly. "10 points to Slytherin."

Draco sat back in the armchair. It was quite comfortable. Actually, from the rather homey additions to the dungeons, it looked as if Snape used it as a hiding place. Snape added something to one of the three cauldrons currently over the flames and then turned to Draco. "I am pleased to have you with us again."

Draco felt his lips tip up slightly. "It's good to recognize you, Professor."

"Not a Professor anymore," said Snape. "And I believe you are of the age where you can call me Severus."

Draco paused for a moment, letting that sink in. He was five years older than he remembered being. He was twenty-two.

There was a moment of incredulity. He'd imagined being in his twenties – a good job, doing what, he didn't know. He planned on travelling overseas. He'd thought he might sponsor a Quidditch team.

Instead, the very last thing he remembered of his real life was being seventeen.

Seventeen. And now he was in his twenties. He'd missed moments in his life, important moments. Turning eighteen and sneaking into the Muggle world to visit a few nightclubs with friends. Turning twenty and having a large party.

Graduating school.

"I haven't even taken my NEWTs," he realized, slightly horrified.

To his right, Bill laughed. "Of course that's what you've taken away from all of this."

Draco sat back in the chair. "A lack of education is hardly something to laugh at," he said, slightly cross. He sat up again, a thought crossing his mind. "Where's Ginny?"

OoOoOoOoO

"Miss Weasley?" the secretary asked. "You've a visitor in the conference room."

Ginny frowned. She had no interviews to conduct, and no meetings scheduled. "Who is it?"

"It's a personal visitor," said the secretary. She shot Ginny a wink and left.

Ginny's frowned deepened, but she pushed back from the desk and walked down to the conference room. She paused in the doorway. Draco was inside, standing in profile to her, looking out the window.

He was wearing dress robes over a silver-gray suit. That made Ginny pause at first because he'd been favoring more casual wear – not having the aristocratic sensibilities that he been instilled in him from birth. But he was standing differently too. His spine was straight, shoulders squared, when he'd been slouching ever-so-slightly before. His head was tilted at just the right angle to assume a somewhat snobbish air.

"Draco?" Ginny asked.

She watched his fingers clench as he turned, like he was bracing himself. His eyes swept over her, head to toe and then back to her face. His lips twitched up.

"Ginny," he said back, voice carefully measured and controlled.

She knew that voice. Her hand went to her throat. "You're back," she said, somewhat stupidly.

"Yes," said Draco. He took a step towards her. "I missed you."

Ginny felt something irrationally angry rise in her chest. "You didn't even remember me."

She, on the other hand, remembered Draco for five years. Worried about him, cried over him, hoped for him.

He frowned, as if that hadn't quite occurred to him. "I suppose that's correct." His hand went to his collar where he still wore the necklace with the ring on it. "It might be more accurate to say I missed the idea of you."

"It's not quite the same," said Ginny.

Draco visibly stopped himself from taking another step forward. His face was pinched – a tell of frustration, but also maybe of pain because he looked a little peaked, and he was holding himself just a tad too stiffly.

"Maybe not," he allowed. His brows furrowed. "Does it need to be the same? Missing each other?"

"I suppose not," said Ginny. "I don't even know why I said it. It's not as if I would want you to be as miserable as I was. It's just," she took in a breath. There were tears behind her eyes, but she didn't want to cry.

Draco frowned. "I didn't want you to be miserable. I told you that you didn't have to wait."

"Of course I waited for you," Ginny said, her words half-choked. "I'm always going to wait for you, Draco."

And then she walked forward, not the eager, joyful leap she had the first time she saw him. That moment of bliss had passed. Now there was a heavy, heart-wrenching relief. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her in tight and rested his forehead on hers.

"You seemed happier the first time you saw me," he said.

"I'm still happy."

"You're crying," he countered.

"Happy tears," she said. "And a few sad tears, but only because I missed you that much."

He pulled back a few inches. "No more sad tears."

"Only if you promise not to leave again," Ginny bargained.

His lips quirked up. "Promise."

He leaned down and she stretched up to seal the deal with a kiss.

OoOoOoOoO

Leave a review! There was minimal editing on this chapter. All mistakes are due to my sleep-deprived mind. Also, I have opinions about Narcissa. What are yours?


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